


Of Comfort and Despair

by AstridContraMundum



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Coming of Age, Gothic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, allusion to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 13:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridContraMundum/pseuds/AstridContraMundum
Summary: When Mr. DeBryn brings Morse to Manderly, Morse thinks he may have found a home at last.But instead, he finds himself fighting for his life and his sanity in a house full of secrets.An AU Fusion of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, Patrick Hamilton's Gaslight, and the episode FUGUE





	1. Chapter 1

 

Monte Carlo, 1939

 

 

Endeavour Morse sat at a piano in a quiet corner of the lobby of the Monte Carlo Grand Hotel. It was a slightly shabby, forgotten oasis in a sea of opulence--of rich carpets, potted palms, tinkling glasses and bright, harsh, sophisticated laughter.

And that’s just what he loved about it.

Here, he could sit unseen, unnoticed by all of the many elegant people who passed him by on their way to chat with new acquaintances and to greet old friends. It was a space in which he could rest for a moment, free from the fear of saying the wrong thing or of doing the wrong thing.

There were few things in life he was certain about.

But music was one of them.

 

In this corner, half-hidden behind the shining grand piano that seemed to stand there merely for show, he could press lightly on the keys, sing softly under his breath, disappear from everyone. 

Or that was the idea.

Because today, he had become too comfortable with the idea of his own invisibility; as his long fingers rippled softly over the keys, the music seemed to travel up his arms in a bright, warm tingle, and right into his chest. He forgot to keep his song under his breath, and, for once, put just a tad too much of his heart into his voice, lifting it higher than was perhaps prudent.

Suddenly, he felt a warmth rush over him that had nothing to do his song.

He looked up.

A man was there, just a few feet away, a glass of Scotch in his hand, watching. He was an unassuming man—possibly even four inches or so shorter than Morse, albeit a bit broader in the shoulders. He had a round, serious face, and he wore a trim suit and heavy-framed glasses. His eyes were lively with a quiet but formidable intelligence that Morse could tell most would do well not to contest.

Morse felt a wash of heat rise from his throat and up to his face. He knew he must be turning a brighter red than even that of the heavy drapes behind him.

 

“Forgive me,” the man said, crisply. “I didn’t intend to startle you. It’s just that you sing rather well.”

“Thank you,” Morse said, looking back down at the keys. With any luck, the man would just pass on, and nothing else would be required of him.

 

The man nodded. When it was clear there would be nothing more forthcoming, he said, “You needn’t be so embarrassed. One mustn’t hide one’s light under a bushel, after all.”

Morse hummed noncommittally, keeping his eyes on his hands as they rippled idly over the keys. He wished to heavens the man could have simply pretended not to have heard, could have simply continued on his way.

 

Morse chanced a brief look up from under his lashes, and to his surprise, the man was still standing there. His alarm must have shown on his face because finally, the man nodded politely and walked away.  

Morse could only hope he wouldn’t run into him again.

 

*****

He never thought he’d ever be in a place like this, the Grand Hotel, in Monte Carlo. It wasn’t a world he thought he would ever belong in. But when he was sent down from Oxford, he knew he would have to make a living somehow.

Returning to his father and stepmother’s home was not an option he could bear to contemplate. A former classmate told him about his aunt, a wealthy older woman who was looking for a personal secretary. Someone to fetch and carry, to keep her appointments, make travel arrangements, and most importantly, to write letters for her—refined and even poetic letters to important people, letters designed to impress.

 

That last detail should have been telling, surely. Why couldn’t the woman simply write her letters herself?

Mrs. Van Hopper proved to be an exacting employer, a formidable social climber whose aggressiveness often made Morse feel he’d like nothing better than to fade completely from sight.

Each morning, she lay claim to a broad white sofa, situated right in the center of the hotel lobby. No one passing was safe from her grasp. Sometimes, Morse was sure he saw people dart up the service stairs rather than pass her on their way to the ornate iron and glass elevators that stood not far behind her.

 

“There you are,” a loud voice said, suddenly, making his heart jump. “What are you doing, hiding in that corner?”

Morse looked up from the piano. For a wild moment, he had felt Mrs. Van Hopper might be capable of reading his thoughts, so heavily had she intruded upon his sanctuary.

“I need you to run up to my room, quick, and fetch those photographs my nephew sent from his honeymoon. I’ve just spotted Mr. DeBryn going into dinner.”   

 

Why did she need the photographs? Of what interest could they be to the most-likely-soon-to-be-ambushed Mr. DeBryn? His was not to reason why. His was just to do or die.

Of embarrassment, most likely.

 

When he returned downstairs, Morse met Mrs. Van Hopper dutifully by the sofa, photographs in hand. It was with a sinking feeling he anticipated this newest surprise attack.

*******

It was not long before she spotted her quarry.

“Oh, Mr. DeBryn!”  she called, from across the room.

 

Oh, God.

 

It was the man—the one who had overheard him singing, the man whose expression was redolent with an acerbic wit and a quiet dignity. Morse prepared to be utterly mortified. Such a man would make quick work of Mrs. Van Hopper.

“I was just looking through some photographs my nephew Edward sent from his honeymoon in Palm Beach,” she said, “and I thought, I _must_ show them to Mr. DeBryn.  It was at Edward’s party that we met—but I don’t suppose you’d remember an old woman like me?”

“On the contrary, I remember you quite well,” he said.

 

Morse felt his face go hot. He looked down at his hands, clasped lightly in his lap. It was a statement that could be taken any number of ways. After all, Mrs. Van Hopper was, if nothing else, memorable.

 

“You _must_ sit down and have some coffee with me,” she said. Then she turned to Morse. “Mr. DeBryn is having some coffee with me. Go and ask the _stupid_ waiter for another cup.”

Morse began to rise from the sofa at the familiar tone of command, when Mr. DeBryn held up his hand, gesturing for him to remain where he was.

“I’m afraid I must contradict you,” he said, settling himself in a chair opposite them.  “You shall both have coffee with me.”

The man raised one finger to a passing waiter, “Garçon?”

 

Whoever Mr. DeBryn was, he must be a man of some wealth or influence or power, for the waiter veritably hopped over at his call. It was depressing, actually. You would think people of his class would have some allegiance to one another, but whenever Morse went into the hotel restaurant by himself, he could scarcely win anyone’s acknowledgement, even to request a glass of water.   

Mrs. Van Hopper was thumbing through the photographs one by one. “There’s his new wife, Dora, isn’t she lovely? It looks like they are having a grand time. But I suppose you wouldn’t waste your time on such frivolousness.”

“I’m afraid that sort of thing ceased to amuse me, years ago,” Mr. DeBryn said.

“Well, of course it has. I’m sure if Edward had a place like Manderly, he wouldn’t be tempted by Palm Beach. I heard it’s one of the biggest places in that part of the country and that you just can’t beat it for beauty. If I had a home like Manderly, I should simply never come to Monte. However can you bear to leave it?  A bit of heaven on earth, I would imagine.”

 

Mr. DeBryn’s impassive face faltered. Mrs. Van Hopper had touched some nerve, that much was clear.  Morse looked up, and his eyes met Mr. DeBryn’s. He tried to pass along some unspoken words of sympathy, apology.

 

Mr. DeBryn, blinked for a moment, surprised. Morse turned away.

 

 “What do you think of Monte?” Mr. DeBryn asked. “Or don’t you think of it at all?”

It took Morse a few seconds to realize it was he who was being addressed. Usually, once Mrs. Van Hopper’s acquaintances recognized he was hardly better than a servant, they felt free to leave him out of the conversation entirely.

He put a hand to the back of his nape and rumpled the waves there. “Well,” he began uncertainly, “I think it’s rather artificial . . .”

“He’s spoiled, Mr. DeBryn, that’s his trouble. Most lads of his class would give their eyes to see Monte.”

“Wouldn’t that rather defeat the purpose?” Mr. DeBryn quipped.

Mrs. Van Hopper gave a forced, odd sort of laugh and then ploughed on ahead: “We went to the revue the other night, and the ridiculous boy acted as if he were being tortured. But then, he listens to the most dreadful stuff. Opera.”

“Oh, really?  Is that so?” Mr. DeBryn said, looking at him with open curiosity.

Morse could no longer bear to look at either of them. He stared off at the piano in the corner, imaging himself there, half hidden by potted palms.

“Now, dear boy,” Mrs. Van Hopper said, “now that we found each other again, you mustn’t be a stranger. Come by now and then and have a drink in my suite. We’ll have you settled for the season in no time.”

“A kind offer,” Mr. DeBryn said. “But I’m afraid I stick to the old maxim: he who travels fastest travels alone. Good evening.” And with that, he rose from the chair and stalked off.

 

Mrs. Van Hopper looked after him, her mouth half-open in surprise.

“What do you make of that? He is an odd one, isn’t he? Oh, well, I just hate to see the poor boy so alone. They say he can’t get over is wife’s death. She was the beautiful Rebecca Hildreth, you know—but you will have heard all about it, of course?”

Morse shook his head. “No,” he said.

“No? She was all over the society pages. Absolutely lovely. Long dark hair, such bright dark eyes. He utterly adored her. She drowned, sometime last year. Sailing accident.”

 

Ah, thought Morse.

So, he was a man in mourning. A man probably running from memories of the home Mrs. Van Hopper had rambled on so blithely about. Morse hoped he would find the peace he was looking for, but why such a man thought he might find it amidst the lights and glitter and empty spectacle of Monte Carlo, he couldn’t imagine.

******

The next morning, Mrs. Van Hopper woke up ill with a cold. Sheer idleness had already made her a bit of a crank, and illness did nothing to improve her temperament. Morse was kept jumping the entire day—fetching medicines and bringing hot tea that was never sweetened quite to exact specifications.

And Mrs. Van Hopper was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Nothing would do but for Morse to play endless rounds of cards with her or to read to her as she lay fretfully, a warm washcloth over her eyes and the bridge of her nose.

By the end of the second day, she had no patience left for him. “Young men of your class have no empathy whatsoever,” she lamented. She announced her intention of hiring a trained nurse in the morning, one that would stay with her for the duration of her illness.

“You’re on holiday until further notice,” she said, mashing out her cigarette in a jar of cold cream. “Make the most of it.”

 Morse scarcely dared to trust his ears. He was free.

For a few days, at least.

But free all the same.

In the morning, he’d have a quick breakfast, and then he’d leave the hotel. He’d walk up into the cliffs, along the wild sea. The wind would be in his hair and there would be no sound save the crashing of the waves and the drawing of the white water back into the depths. And he would be alone and he would be at peace.

 If only for a few hours.

*******

Morse went down broad carpeted steps and through the lobby, turning when he reached the wide doors that led into the hotel restaurant. As miserable as it was breakfasting with Mrs. Van Hopper, it was even more dismal without her. The staff knew that he was a nobody from nowhere and resented waiting on him when he dined alone.

And then, of course, the inevitable happened. He tried to nod politely and smile at the waiter as he sat, but then the man tossed the menu down on the table with such peremptory rudeness and looked at him so haughtily, that Morse felt wrong-footed, even anxious. As he sat, he pulled on the edge of the tablecloth, upsetting a vase of flowers and spilling water all over the table, soaking the linen.

The waiter huffed impatiently and Morse sprung up from his chair, immediately righting the vase.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. 

In the space of a moment, two more waiters appeared with a fresh cloth.

“You needn’t bother,” Morse said, mopping up the cloth with his napkin. “It’s just a bit of water. I’ll be all right.”

People were beginning to look up from their strawberries and scrambled eggs. It was monstrous. Morse felt as if they were making a bigger to do about it than need be, just to make him feel smaller than he already did. Did it honestly take three men to change a tablecloth?

Suddenly an authoritative voice called out from behind him.

“Well, you certainly needn’t make all that fuss about it. One would think you were constructing a cathedral rather than setting a table.”

Morse turned. It was Mr. DeBryn.

Then, to the head waiter, he said, “Go and lay another place for Monsieur at my table.”

“Oh, no,” Morse said. “You needn’t bother. I’ll be all right once they’ve changed the cloth.”

“Nonsense,” he replied wryly. “I should have asked you even if you hadn’t upset the vase so clumsily.”

The man turned away at once, giving Morse no chance to protest.

Morse followed slowly and sat down opposite Mr. DeBryn, taking a napkin and spreading it across his lap with a snap of linen.  

“Forgive me for being so rude last night," Mr. DeBryn said. “I’m afraid I’ve become rather churlish, these past few years. I realized only too late that I never asked your name.”

“Oh,” Morse, said. He was distracted by the waiter, who was hovering over him sycophantically. Morse was surprised by the sudden attention and had barley the time to think over his order.

“Morse,” he said to Mr. DeBryn. Then he looked up to the waiter. “I’ll . . .  I’ll just have orange juice and scrambled eggs,” he stuttered.  

“Morse, is it?” Mr. DeBryn said. “Just Morse, and nothing else?”

He could tell the man was trying to prompt him for more information, but on this, if nothing else, Morse always remained firm.

“Just Morse,” he said.

“Well then, Morse. Where’s your friend today?” Mr. DeBryn asked.

“She’s ill in bed, with a cold. So she’s hired a trained nurse.”

“ _Is_ she your friend, or is she just a relation?”  

“Actually, she’s neither. She’s my employer. I’m her secretary.”

A thin crease appeared between Mr. DeBryn’s brows. “What business is she involved in that she has need of a secretary?”  

Morse shrugged. “Mostly I fetch things and run errands and keep her appointments. And write letters.”

“Letters?”

Morse paused at this. How to explain? He had always done as he was told. But now that he said it out loud, he was a bit stunned: it was sort of dishonest what he did, wasn’t it? Polishing up her social climbing aspirations and intrusiveness and making them sound like heartfelt inquiries?

“Yes,” Morse ventured. “To people she wants to, well, impress. She . . .  she’s quite interested in any one she feels is of note or name.”

Mr. DeBryn raised his eyebrows at this, and Morse could sense immediately that he didn’t quite approve. It hurt a bit: he did so want the man to think well of him.

Then the waiter has returned, setting down his glass and plate just so. Why had he ordered orange juice? he thought. Wasn’t that rather childish? He should have ordered black coffee.

“Why did you take such a job?” Mr. DeBryn asked. “Don’t you have any family?”

Morse looked down. “No.  Not really.”

“Well, which is it?” DeBryn said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Which is it?” Mr. DeBryn clarified. “Is it ‘no’ or ‘not really?’”

Morse wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer. He had long since understood that there would never be anything between him and his father—the sting of rejection he had felt at twelve had long since faded to a dull pang. But, even after all these years, the memory of his mother left him with a strange ache of sorrow, one that he could never quite brush away.

He could just refuse to say anything, he supposed. But when he looked up, the man was still looking at him in the same steady, forthright manner.

“Not really,” Morse murmured.

“I see.” Mr. DeBryn said quietly. And Morse thought he really did see.

He felt his throat tighten, and so he shook his head as if by doing so he might shake his thoughts away.

Morse knew that among upper-crust people it didn’t do to wear one’s heart one’s sleeve, to let one’s emotions show. He looked up and smiled, “So, I took this job.”

“How rotten for you.”

“Sometimes it is, rather. It’s a bit strange sometimes.”

“How so?”

“Well, the letters for one thing. I’m afraid I have to admit: I haven’t really given it much thought until now, but it _is_ dishonest, isn’t it? It’s almost as if I’m pretending to be her, aren’t I? She’s not, she means well, but, she can be, she, well. . . .  I mean, she isn’t terribly sincere.  She doesn’t really care about the people she has me write to. She just wants to be in their circle. I suppose she’s rather lonely, isn’t she? I feel quite sorry for her.”

Mr. DeBryn gave him a half-smile. “So, you’re a Cyrano de Bergerac, then?” he said.

Morse laughed. “I suppose I am. Only she isn’t in love with any of the people I write to; she only hopes to be invited to dinner.”

Mr. DeBryn took a sip of his coffee. “You had said the “one thing.” What else about the job perplexes you?”

Morse wasn’t sure whether or not to continue. Was he talking too much? He realized, suddenly, he hadn’t talked, really talked, to anyone except for Mrs. Van Hopper in months. Wasn’t it gauche, though, to rattle on so?

Morse looked up at Mr. DeBryn. He was still watching, with his steady, impassive gaze, waiting for Morse to speak. It must be all right. He did seem interested in what Morse had to say, and if someone asked a question, he supposed, it was only the polite thing to answer.

“Well,” Morse began, “other people, are much the same. They ask the oddest things. I went to pick up some things Mrs. Van Hopper ordered at the dress shop, and the woman there told me she’d give me thirty francs for each of Mrs. Van Hoppers’ friends that I convinced to shop there. But how could I possibly recommend such a place? I don’t know anything about fashion.”

“Ah,” Mr. DeBryn. “So goes the world. In another year or two, you’ll understand. You’ll be taking all sorts of little bribes like that.”

Morse lifted his chin, “I certainly will not.”

 

He might be hopelessly outranked by this man socially, but he certainly needn’t accept insults against his character.  

 

Mr. DeBryn paused as he was about to take a sip of coffee and looked up at him over the top of his glasses. “I beg your pardon. You are the one who will remain incorruptible.”

“Well, you needn’t say it with such sarcasm,” Morse murmured.  

“It seems I can’t help but misstep today,” Mr. DeBryn said, but the corner of his mouth twitched a bit, in what might have been a smile.  

“So, her ladyship’s secretary has a day off,” he continued. “What is he going to make of it?”

“Haven’t made up my mind. Actually, I was just going off for a bit or a wander.”

“Well, that’s good. We can go for a drive.”

“Oh,” Morse said. The quickness with which Mr. DeBryn had leapt to “we” was quite jarring. He hesitated for just a moment. After all, he scarcely knew the man.

But he hadn’t realized until that morning how terribly lonely he had been all of these long months. Surely, such a simple offer shouldn’t leave his heart so overflowing with gratitude?

And why shouldn’t he go, if he had been invited? He was on holiday, Mrs. Van Hopper had said.

******

Morse followed Mr. DeBryn out to his car and slipped into the passenger seat. He had never ridden in a convertible before. They drove for hours, until they were well out of the city, and ripping along the coast.

Mr. DeBryn didn’t speak, but that was all right. It was nice just to sit and watch cliffs and trees and the sea soaring by.

It was actually quite thrilling: with the wind in his hair, and the world running past as if it were his for the taking, Morse felt for the first time in a long time a sense of hope, that it was, after all, good to be alive.

Morse closed his eyes. And suddenly, he could be anyone. He and Mr. DeBryn could be gangsters, heading down to the casino, to play a few fixed hands. They could be princes, taking a tour of their sea-cliff kingdom. They could be actors, off to shoot a dramatic scene on a rocky beach below.

When he opened his eyes, Mr. De Bryn was looking at him bemusedly. He realized, then, with a jolt, that Mr. DeBryn had stopped the car.

“Thought we might go for a bit of a walk; there’s a path up ahead. Marvelous views,” he said.

“All right,” Morse said.

******

They walked along a rocky path, watching the sea crash wildly below. Mr. DeBryn stopped suddenly at an outcropping, and stood for several minutes, looking over the water, as wave after wave churned against the rocks. He seemed lost in thought.  Morse wasn’t quite sure what to say. He began to feel as if Mr. DeBryn had forgotten all about him, as if he was invading the man’s solitude. But just then, DeBryn paused to murmur,

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture in the lonely shore.”

And then, Morse smiled. Because that was exactly how he had always felt. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like people. On the contrary, often he was so lonely he thought his heart might die of it. But people were difficult. Being alone was easy. And being alone walking out in the woods or along the sea was beautiful. It was in moments like those that the loneliness in his heart subsided, giving way to a pure and unexpected joy.

Perhaps Mr. DeBryn felt the same way, then? Morse wanted to show that he understood, and so he began to finish the poem:

 

“There is a society where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but nature more,

From these are interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the universe, and feel

What I ne’er can express, yet cannot all conceal

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—Roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in . . . “

Morse stopped. Mr. DeBryn was looking at him, utterly perplexed. Perhaps he had gone on a bit too much? His stepmother had always hated when he recited poetry, even it was just softly, mumbled under his breath, a way to entertain himself as he dried dishes or mopped the floors.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Mr. DeBryn said. He tilted his head and considered him. “Tell, me, have you been to school? You must have some education, surely, for the esteemed Mrs. Van Hopper to hire you as her ghost writer.”

The gently teasing tone in Mr. DeBryn’s voice had him feeling awkward again. “No,” Morse said, tersely. “Not really.”

“My word, you are a puzzle. So which it? ‘No’ or ‘not really’?”

“Not really.”

Again, Mr. DeBryn regarded him with that same expectant look, the look that made Morse feel compelled to clarify what he would rather leave unsaid.

“I. I was at Oxford, for a year and a half.”

“And?”

“And. And I got sent down.”

“Academic pace a little too much for you, was it?”

“No,” Morse said, hotly. “I . . .  I just didn’t much want to stay.”

“Girl trouble, then?”

Morse shrugged. “We were engaged. And then we weren’t. There. Now you know all of my secrets.”

For some reason Mr. DeBryn’s face tightened at that. Then he smiled wryly. “My, my. All of your secrets, are they? That took all of four and a quarter hours to uncover.”

Morse flushed at that. He had told this man all about himself, more than he had told anyone in years, and this was his reward?

  
“That’s not quite fair,” he said. “It may seem nothing to you, but it seems a great deal to me. I think being left alone in the world to fend for one’s self and suffering a broken engagement is a life quite _too_ fraught with incident for someone my age.”  

“Oh? And how old are you then?”

“Old enough not to feel I need answer every question put to me.”

Mr. DeBryn laughed, and this time, it was warm and genuine. “My apologies.”

 

They continued to walk along for a little way until Mr. DeBryn stopped again, returning to his mediation on the sea.

Morse waited for some time for some sort of acknowledgement, but then, after long minutes passed in silence, he turned away. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked Mr. DeBryn or not. Eccentricity might be well and fine, but it was no excuse for rudeness.

Morse began walking down the path and then stepped up onto a high rock. From that rock, he stepped onto the next, holding his arms out for balance. When he got to the end that one, he looked for another flat one and stepped onto that—it was a bit like a labyrinth—finding chains of navigable stones to form a path along the sea.

It was actually quite fun. It was a bit of a challenge—choosing which rocks were steady and stable and smooth enough to serve as stepping stones—and by moving so, rock to rock to rock, one step at a time, it was impossible to see where one might end up until one got there.

Suddenly, from over the crashing of the breaking water below, he heard a shout.

“What the devil are you doing?”

Morse looked up, surprised. Mr. DeBryn was standing at the edge of the chain of rocks, his eyes sharp with anger.

“’I’m simply climbing,” Morse said, perplexed.

“Don’t you see all of those rocks below? God, man, I thought you were the one sensible person here in Monte. Come over here at once.”

Morse froze for a moment, not particularly disposed to follow such an order. Who was he to bully him about?

“It’s fine,” Morse replied. All of Morse’s childhood had been spent in the country. There was no danger of him wandering too near the edge. He was well away from the drop where the cliffs plunged into the sea, and he was much more surefooted than that, at any rate.

Mr. DeByrn stood at the edge, watching, his eyes still sharp. Morse continued what he was doing, but, slowly, almost against his will, he began to comply with the order in Mr. DeBryn’s expression, following a winding trail of rocks that led back to the path, back to where Mr. DeBryn stood waiting.

When he was a few feet away, Morse said, “It’s fine. I grew up in the country. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh? Did you?” Mr. DeBryn said testily. “And I suppose Lincolnshire had cliffs like these, did it?”

Morse flushed slightly at this. He worked hard, when among people such as Mr. DeBryn, to moderate his accent. That everything about him seemed so transparent to the man was beginning to wear on his nerves.

He began to think better of returning to the path. Perhaps he would continue along the labyrinth of rocks after all.

It was as if Mr. DeBryn could read his thoughts, or at least his expression, because at that moment, he reached up and took his arm, pulling him down from off the rock. He was not a large man, but he must have had a hidden strength about him, for Morse was tilting forward before he could brace himself against the man’s pull.

Morse slipped down off of the gray rock, falling hard against the man below. In that moment, Mr. DeBryn’s hands flew to his waist to steady him, while Morse’s hands flew up to Mr. DeBryn’s chest, bracing himself from falling further forwards.

They stood for a few seconds, looking at one another face to face, Morse’s heart racing from his unexpected tumble.

Finally, Morse managed to catch his breath and push himself back, so that he was standing steadily. Then he turned away and continued walking along the sea as if nothing had happened.

It didn’t make any sense: There was no explanation for why his heart should still be hammering so hard in his chest. It was as if . . .

 

It must have been the fall that had startled him so, that was all.

 

He continued down the path, keeping his face hidden, turned safely toward the sea.

Morse knew that among upper-crust people it didn’t do to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve, to let one’s emotions show.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Morse turned and walked on, listening to the heavy waves crashing below, each one throwing itself against the rocks, one after the other, in a steady, unending tempo.

It was the most forsaken sound he had ever heard.

He heard Mr. DeBryn approach behind him.  

 “Oh well. Children will feel they are invincible I suppose,” he said.

Morse bristled at this. He had been, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world since he was twelve. He’d been looking after himself seven years.

He turned back to Mr. DeBryn and pulled himself up to his full height.  “I’m not a child,” he said.

For the first time since Morse had met him, Mr. DeBryn looked taken aback, blinking owlishly behind his glasses.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” Morse said.

Morse turned and continued walking. He wished he had never come out here with the man. The sound of the sea showed him how impossible carrying on his little life really was.

How could he go back now, writing cloying letters, complaining to attendants about seating arrangements, looking for lost gloves at horrendous musical revues? When he would have the memory of the wind in his hair and the freedom of Mr. DeBryn’s convertible, the memory of a walk along the wild sea that was so much like his own frantic heart?

He would simply have to put it all back. Put all of the new feelings roiling inside him and crush them back into the quiet and tidy box that he had become, the neat stand-in for a flesh and blood human being.

On the drive back, they were silent. Mr. DeBryn was looking oddly grim, as if his thoughts were miles away. And perhaps they were. Perhaps they had travelled all the way back to a time when he had walked with another along that same coast.

 

And why should Mr. DeBryn speak? As the man pointed out, he had learned everything there was to know about him in less than five hours. And it wasn’t as if Morse was anyone with whom it would be worth sharing thoughts of his own.

 

At the end of the road, instead of heading back to the hotel, Mr. DeBryn took a sharp left.

Morse was just about to open his mouth to protest, when, without warning, Mr. DeBryn hit the gas.

It was madness—they flew up and up along the narrow road until the road became a mere gravel passageway, twisting and turning two or three feet from the edge of the cliff. Mr. DeBryn turned a sharp corner, and the car jerked at his command, sending a shower of rocks plummeting down behind them, to crash onto stones and to rumble into the sea below.

Morse looked over at Mr. DeBryn in disbelief.

What a hypocrite he was, to have scolded him so about walking along the rocks, Morse thought wildly. The man was an absolute daredevil. He drove as if the very hounds of hell were pursuing them, baying and snapping at the car’s back tires. Morse glanced down at the speedometer—the needle swerved closer and closer to the very edge of the dial.

How fast could the car go? It felt as if the frame of it was trembling beneath him. The wind was in his face and hair, and his heart was racing with a surge of adrenaline.  Mr. DeBryn took another sharp turn, and Morse threw his hand up to the dashboard to prevent himself from being thrown sideways.

It was thrilling. He wondered if Mr. DeBryn might let him drive the car sometime—he had never really had the chance to learn.  

They rounded another hair-pin turn at top speed, sending another cascade of rocks crashing down behind them.

 

Perhaps he should start out a bit more modestly than this, though. In a car lot, for example?

 

They rounded a final turn, and Morse grabbed again onto the dashboard, his knuckles white under the strain. For here, the road ended, and ahead was nothing but a vast and endless expanse of dark, churning water. Morse’s heart pounded against his chest.

Mr. DeBryn hit the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt.

Morse turned to him, prepared to laugh—whether out of a giddy sort of joy or out of nerves, he wasn’t sure.

But Mr. DeBryn appeared in no mood for laughter. He swung his legs out of the car and stalked to the edge of the cliff. He stood there for a long time. Morse again felt uncertain as to what to do. It was almost as if the man was looking at ghosts.

He got out of the car and followed. “Mr. DeBryn?” Morse asked, hesitantly.

There was no answer.

“Have you been here before? Mr. DeBryn?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve been here before.”

“Is it much changed?”

“No,” Mr. DeBryn said.

He turned. He seemed almost surprised to see Morse standing there. Could it be true? Could he have forgotten all about him?

Mr. DeBryn's gaze swept from the front of the car, stopped only three feet before the edge of the cliff, to Morse.  He looked stricken.

“That was an unforgivable thing to do,” he said. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

Morse shrugged. “I thought it was rather ripping,” he said.

 

Then he winced. Ripping? Isn’t that what school boys said about football matches?

 

Mr. DeBryn studied him for a long moment, and then he laughed. And it was a warm, rolling laugh. Suddenly, he seemed much younger. Perhaps he was.

“It’s a good thing you have a sturdy constitution, then. Though I suppose you must be made of fairly strong stuff to survive daily life with the formidable Mrs. Van Hopper.”

 

Morse shrugged. “Well, it was either this job or the Army,” he said.

Mr. DeBryn laughed at that, too, even though Morse had spoken in earnest.

Not matter. He was happy to have lightened the man’s mood.

 

They drove back down the road more slowly. It was beginning to get dark—the evening star popped out on the horizon against a greening sky.

“I think you’ve made rather a mistake, joining forces with Mrs. Van Hopper. You’re all wrong for that sort of job,” Mr. DeBryn said. “And what will you do when her ladyship tires of making the social rounds and no longer needs her secretary? What will you do then?”

“I’ll just have to find another job, I suppose.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Mr. DeBryn said. “We have a lot in common, you and I. We are both alone in the world. I have a sister, but we’ve never understood one another, never seen eye to eye. And I have an ancient grandmother I pay duty visits to once a month. But other than that . . . . “

“You forget. You have a home and I do not.”

“An empty house can be as lonely as a full hotel,” Mr. DeBryn said.

Morse thought about that for a moment. He didn’t quite agree: An empty house would still be a place of your own, a place where you could safely land.

But Morse was spared from having to answer, because, surprisingly, Mr. DeBryn began to talk about Manderly—about the forests he rambled in as a boy, about the stables, where he had a bay named Roderigo, and about the acres and acres of gardens that surrounded the place. His mother, he said, had whole gardens devoted to roses meant solely for the house. She would not abide wildflowers in a vase.

“Once, we were walking, and some bicyclists who were cutting through our woods had vast amounts of bluebells tied to their handlebars. But they were already wilting, poor things. My mother said, “Bluebells were meant to live under the sky.” Roses, she said, were about the only flowers that seemed just as happy to be indoors.”

“She sounds like she was a lovely person,” Morse said.

“She was,” Mr. DeBryn said.

Did he ever think Mr. DeBryn was sardonic and harsh, difficult to talk to? He was the easiest person Morse had spoken to in years.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Morse got out of the car. “Thank you Mr. DeBryn. It was a very enjoyable day,” he said, politely.

The corner of Mr. DeBryn’s mouth twitched a bit. Had he said something wrong? He thought that was a perfectly proper thing to say. Was that too formal, perhaps?

“I should be thanking you,” he said. “I’m afraid regret and introspection have been dogging my heels this past year. You’ve brought me out of myself for the first time in a long while.”

Morse wasn’t sure what to say to that. He simply nodded and turned to go.

 

*****

The next day, when Morse went down to breakfast, there was already a second place laid out at Mr. DeBryn’s table. He beckoned Morse over.

“I was hoping I hadn’t missed you. I was wondering if you’d be up for another drive?”

“All right,” Morse said.

 

It was another gloriously beautiful summer day. He wondered how he could ever have believed that Monte Carlo was artificial. It was the only real place on earth: the little white boats like white clouds drifting across the sea, the sky a deeper blue than it ever managed to achieve in England, the sea, dark and dramatic and dangerous.

 

One evening they went to an opera. As many records as Morse had listened to, he had never actually been to a performance. He tried his best to remain nonchalant, but how could he? It was thrilling to sit with the music swelling on all sides around him, instead of from the small speaker of his record player.

By the time they got back to the car, Morse felt embarrassed about the open enthusiasm he had shown. As he raked back over the details of the evening, everything he had said and did seemed terribly gauche somehow. It was painful to even think about.

 

Surely, there were others Mr. DeBryn could have accompanied: he seemed to know everyone at the hotel. Or they all seemed to know him, at any rate. He surely would have had a better time with someone who could have spoken more intelligently about the performance. Been able to compare and contrast it with others past.

“I thought DiLorenzo sang much better in Tosca last year, didn’t you, old man?” the unknown acquaintance would say. He’d go somewhere afterwards with Mr. DeBryn for a Scotch, instead of having to return to the hotel as if he might turn into a pumpkin after midnight.

 

Why did he ask him out day after day?

 

He looked over at Mr. DeBryn. The light that had lit his face during the evening had faded, turned back into a dark scowl. It was clear he was in his own world again.

Was Morse merely a bother? Maybe he felt sorry for him. Perhaps he saw how pathetic his life was and asked him out of pity. The sort of good deed that people of his class might perform out of a sense of noblesse oblige.

God, how humiliating, if that were the case.

“Mr. DeBryn? I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering. Why do you ask me to come out with you? I mean, it’s obvious that you want to be kind, but, why do you chose _me_ for your charity?”

An even darker shadow fell over Mr. DeBryn’s face. He stopped the car and turned to Morse. “If you think I invite you out only to be kind, I’m afraid you don’t know me very well,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “I’ve invited you because you’ve drowned out the memories for me more than all the bright lights of Monte. But if you think I ask you out of charity, you can open the door and get out.”

Morse faltered. They were in the middle of nowhere. In the dark, he had even lost his bearings. He did not even know how, precisely, to get back to the hotel.

“Go on.”

Yet, after such an ultimatum, how could he stay? Pride forbade any other alternative than that he get the hell out of the car.

 

Morse popped the lock and jumped out. He started walking, heading down the side of the road in the direction they had been driving.

Mr. DeBryn did not start the car. He just sat there, behind him somewhere in the darkness. For one wild moment, Morse wondered if the man might hit the gas, run him down in the road.

When he had travelled a good few hundred feet, Morse heard the engine turn over. Soon, the car was pulling up alongside him.

“Good God, man, I didn’t mean for you to take me so literally.”

Morse shrugged. “It sounded fairly straightforward to me.”

“Listen, Morse, if we are to be friends, you’ll have to know that sometimes my temper gets the better of me . . . my words can be, well, a bit acidic, shall we say? Now get back in the car. I mean it.”

Morse huffed a bitter laugh. “Perhaps. Mr. DeBryn, it would be better if you just said what you mean in the first place.”

“Stop this. Now get in the car. You needn’t ever speak to me again once we get the hotel, but I’m not leaving you here in the middle of nowhere.  Please don’t make me follow you all the way back at five kilometers an hour. I will completely wear out my clutch.”

Morse felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

“All right,” he said. He slid back into the passenger seat.

“There that’s it," Mr. DeBryn said. "Well, now that you’ve seen the worst of me, and seem to have, for the moment, forgiven me, I think, it’s best we dispense with this Mr. DeBryn business, yes?

Morse looked at him uncertainly.

“I have a very impressive array of Christian names,” Mr. DeBryn said. “George Fortescue Maximillian. But you needn’t bother with them all at once. My family calls me Max.”

With that, he turned his full attention back to the road.

 

Max.

 

Morse tested the syllable out to himself in his mind.

One simple syllable. It seemed to suit the man. It had a devil-may-care attitude about it, didn’t it? It was quite sophisticated.

Certainly, more so than his own ponderous name.

He pictured himself older, in a better evening suit, a phone receiver in his hand.

He would call him up, “Hello, Max old chap? Did you see that Puccini is on this week?”  

“Good evening, then, Max.”

And then saw himself in a room at a party.

“Max was just telling me the other day . . . “

Mrs. Van Hopper, the porters, the wait staff who made his life a misery—they all had to call him Mr. DeBryn.

But he could call him Max.

 

By the time he returned to Mrs. Van Hopper’s suite, his happiness must have shown clearly on his face.

“What are you mooning about for? Where have you been? You’ve been enjoying your free reign a little too much. I’m getting rid of that nurse in the morning, and from now on you can stick to your job,” she said. “Go get some stationery I want you to write a letter to Lady Ellington.”

“Yes, Mrs. Van Hopper,” Morse said.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

There would be no more going down early for breakfast. He would be back to following in Mrs. Van Hopper’s wake.

She took an inordinate amount of time to get ready in the morning, and once they finally moseyed down to breakfast, Mr. DeBryn would likely be long gone. Off about his day. And he wouldn’t miss Morse.  He had only been good perhaps for a few days’ amusement, after all.  As the man had said, he uncovered everything about him in one fell swoop.

And, sure enough, during the course of the day, their paths did not cross.

Nor on the next day.

That afternoon, the post arrived with a letter that sent Mrs. Van Hopper into a tumult of excitement.

“My daughter Sadie is engaged to be married! Go downstairs quick, I’ll need you to go to the front desk to make all the arrangements. We’re sailing for New York as soon as we can.”

“Oh?” Morse said.

“Yes. Don’t just stand there, dawdling. Go and ask that _wretched_ clerk about when the next ship sails."

 

**************

Morse hated packing. And Mrs. Van Hopper had so many things. And so many cases that needed to be lugged downstairs.

By three in the afternoon, the hair on the back of his neck was damp and curling with sweat—he felt as if his shirt was sticking to him. Each case he packed was one more step away from their leave-taking. Soon, the sea that he and Mr. DeBryn had walked along would separate them. He would be drifting slowly away across the waves, and meanwhile, Mr. DeBryn would go on, eating his tangerines and reading his papers, and not even noticie that he no longer came down for breakfast.

And to top it all off, he didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye.

Although, perhaps that was for the best. After all, what on earth would he say?

_“Thanks, Max. Monte has been smashing hasn’t it?”_

_“Yes, it has rather.”_

_“Well, do write.”_

_“Of course.”_

And so on. All the trite things people say when parting—the promises to write that they don’t mean, the empty niceties. Perhaps it’s better if they miss him all together.

“Why are you looking so miserable?” Mrs. Van Hopper snapped. “I thought you didn’t care for Monte. I thought you’d be glad to go.”

Morse latched the trunk shut. “I’ve grown accustomed to it, after all.”

“What a contrary child you are. Well, you’ll simply have to get accustomed to New York. Don’t you know boys of your class can have the grandest fun there? Girls and dances and all sorts. And you needn’t be at my beck and call so much as you are here. You could have your own little set of friends, all in your own class.”

But Morse didn’t feel at all as if he was sailing on to a host of new friends. He felt as if he were leaving the only true friend he had ever had.

By four, he had brought most of the luggage down to the cab. The driver was looking none too pleased at the way Morse had forced shut the boot, but what else was to be done? There were still more cases at his feet and three more upstairs. As it was, he would be crammed in the back seat among a flotsam and jetsam of baggage.

Then another thought struck him: Once Mrs. Van Hopper was installed with a just-married daughter in her native New York, would she ever return to Europe? If he went there with her, and then later found the job unbearable, would he ever have enough money to get passage back to Britain?

He wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the realization that he may be exiled forever, but suddenly he felt almost ill.

 

Just then, Max drove up in his long black car. Morse felt his heart race. For a moment, he almost felt as if he were a mirage, or a result of wishful thinking.

Max parked and quietly got out of the car, his round face wearing its familiar impassive expression, as he flicked a look at the cases at Morse’s feet.

Morse felt a wave if relief. Perhaps New York would be bearable, if at least Max knew that he was there. Even if Max never did write, the promise of a letter that might very probably never come was far better than no hope at all of a friendly word during his exile.

“We’re leaving now,” Morse said, as Max approached. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance to say good-bye.”   

“Where is she taking you?”

“New York. I don’t want to go. I shall hate it. I shall be miserable. If I want to leave this job once I’m there, how will I ever get back?” Morse stopped and cleared his throat. His voice seemed to have somehow gone up an octave.

Max seemed to consider him for a moment. “Well then. If that’s the case, happily, for you, you have a choice. You can either go to New York with Mrs. Van Hopper, or you can return to Manderly with me.”

“Please don’t joke about it,” Morse said. “I had better say good-bye now. I still have three more cases to bring down. And my own things as well.”  

“I repeat what I said. Which do you prefer? New York or Manderly?”

Morse furrowed his brow. Was the man quite in earnest?

“Do you want a secretary or something?” Morse asked uncertainly.

Max blinked. For a moment, Morse again felt rather wrong-footed.

But then, he smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. If I’m going back to the house, there will be quite a lot to do. I have the land agent, of course, but there is a lot that goes into running a house the size of Manderly. And I’ll be expected to do my share of entertaining again, and that always generates a host of tedious tasks. I’ve been looking to hire someone on. As an assistant agent.”  

 

Agent? Morse could scarcely believe it. A job with a future in it? It was more than he had ever hoped for.

 

“All right, then,” Morse said. “Thank you.”

“Morse!”

Morse turned at the familiar call. Just then, Mrs. Van Hopper had marched out the front doors, her face full of thunder, doubtless angry at how long Morse had been taking to pack the cab.

Morse spun back to Max. “Will you tell her? She’ll be so angry.”

Max blinked at him surprise. “Christ, man. You can’t possibly be afraid of her, can you? Don’t you think you ought to tell her yourself?”

As she drew near, Mrs. Van Hopper caught sight of Max.

“Oh, Mr. DeBryn, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said, her strident note of command suddenly turning to honey. “I’m afraid I’ve been in a bit of a whirlwind. It was _so_ rude of me not to let you know, but my daughter is getting married, and I’m leaving for New York.”

She turned, then, to Morse. “Haven’t you got the last cases in the car yet? And it looks like you haven’t even packed. Your records are still all about the place.”

“I’m not going,” Morse said.  

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Mr. DeBryn offered me a job. As assistant agent at Manderly.”

“ _Agent_ _at_ _Manderly_?” she said, laughing. “That’s absurd. What experience do you have running a house like that?” Then she looked at him in an oddly shrewd manner. “When did all of this happen?”

“Just now,” Morse said.

She cast a dark look over at Mr. DeBryn. It was strange: all this while, she had been so obsequious around the man.

She turned her gaze back to Morse. “Well, I guess I know what you’ve been getting up to during my illness,” she said.  She ran her eyes over his form in a way that made Morse want to shrink inside himself. “Tell me, my dear, have you been doing anything you shouldn’t?”

Morse glanced over uncertainly at Max for some indication of what she might mean. Had he? He hadn’t begged for the job, certainly, but had he, perhaps, committed a faux pas, by gushing out the tale of his plight?

But Max’s expression revealed only bored contempt.

Morse turned back to Mrs. Van Hopper. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose it’s lucky you don’t have any family to ask any questions.” She huffed a final laugh.

Why would his family have any objections to him taking a better job? What possible business of theirs would that be?

“I suppose I shall have to get the porters to get the last cases,” she sniffed.  

“I’ll get them,” Morse said. He may as well, he thought. He had to get his own things at any rate. And anything seemed preferable than standing here on the curb with her looking at him so.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to Max. Max stood where he was, leaning against the cab, raising only one bemused eyebrow.

Morse would come to regret this final kindness. Mrs. Van Hopper followed him up to the room, keeping pace with him step by step, moving much faster than Morse would have thought possible. She had not gotten raking him over the coals quite out of her system.

“You don’t fancy that he really needs someone like you, do you? The fact is, with his wife gone, the poor boy can’t stand to be in that big house alone. But, frankly, dear, you don’t belong at Manderly at all. Rebecca ran that place so it was the showplace of Cornwall; how will you even begin to compare? You don’t have the breeding, or the brains for it.”

 

What was this? He was going as an assistant agent. He certainly had no intention of replacing the man’s beloved late wife. The woman was raving.

 

By the time he got back down stairs, he was seething. Max was still waiting by the car, giving him a quizzical look.

Morse set Mrs. Van Hopper’s last cases down by the cab.  “I think I had better say good-bye now," he said. 

Mrs. Van Hopper snorted and gave him one last, appraising look. “ _Agent at Manderly_ ,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Good bye my dear and good luck.”

Morse stared after her in disbelief. Eight months of stepping and fetching, and his was his farewell.

Max was studying his expression. “What is it?” he asked. “Did she say something to annoy you?”

Morse shrugged. “I suppose I thought after all this time she might have congratulated me. I mean, assistant agent is a job with a future in it, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid you have rather a bit too much faith in human nature,” Max said. “Pity you have to grow up.”

 

Morse scowled.

 

******

When they turned the final bend of the long, winding drive, Morse drew in a quick intake of breath. Manderly was immense, a world entirely its own; a large Georgian brick house, with two large wings extending back on either end, surrounded by a tumult of roses. On one side, there was an abundance of gardens that gave way to a deep forest, on the other, an expanse of lawn that gave way to rocks, and rolled down to the sea.

 

A line of twenty or so servants in liveries and aprons and caps were lined up smartly outside.

 

“God damn the woman,” Max said. “I told her not to do all of this. Well, best you meet everyone and get it over with.”

 

Max pulled the car up, and they got out, walking side by side to where the waiting servants stood. Morse nodded to them one by one—he was sure they were appraising him, judging him and finding him wanting—on account of his youth, the poor quality of his jacket, the state of his hair after having ridden in the convertible. Any number of things.

A severe-looking woman stood alone and apart at the end of the line—her dark eyes highlighted by her gaunt, pale face; her dark hair pulled tightly back in a bun.

“My name is Mrs. Danvers,” she said curtly. “I hope you shall find everything to your satisfaction. I’ve been running the house since the late Mrs. DeBryn’s death, and Mr. DeBryn has never complained.”

Morse turned uncertainly to Max. So, he already had someone to run the house. Was he replacing her? Did Max have any sense at all? What was he setting him up for? Of course she would be bound to resent him.

“How do you do?” Morse said.

The woman nodded crisply, her eyes cold.

Near the door, standing off by himself, was a large man in a well-made suit, with a friendly broad face. “So, this is the apprentice, then?” he called. He took Morse’s hand and gave it a solid shake.

“Jim Strange,” the man said.

 

Here was a man secure in his position, Morse thought.  Unlike Mrs. Danvers, whose dark eyes seemed to glitter at him menacingly, this man didn’t seem to perceive him as a threat.

 

“Morse,” he said.

Just then, Morse’s eye was caught by another man, who was watching them from around the corner of the house. He looked to be approaching middle age, but there was something childlike in his expression. Morse met his gaze for a moment. Then the man darted away.

“Who was that?”

Max and Strange turned to look. "Who?" Max asked. 

“That man?” Morse said. “He gave me an odd look and ran off.”

“Oh,” Max said. “That must have been Samuel. Poor thing. Feeble-minded. He turned up some years ago, squatting on the estate, so we began giving him odd jobs. He lives in a cottage now, down near the village. He’s wary of new people, but I’m sure he’ll get used to you soon enough.”

Morse nodded and turned to go get his things from the car, but found that an army of servants was already unpacking the boot. He felt a twinge of worry—his record player was the only thing of any value he possessed, and he generally did not allow others to handle it.

“Bring the record player into the library,” Max called, as if reading his thoughts. Then, turning to Morse he said, “We may as well sit by the fire a bit before dinner. The air gets quite damp out here— by evening, there’s already a chill, even at the tail end of the summer.”

As he followed Max through the house, Morse felt rather as if he were in a museum. The high ceilings, the fine art, the fragile vases, the rich, delicate furniture—it seemed the sort of place that should be walked through in a hush. It didn’t look like a home he would envision for Max.

Once, they got to the library, Morse felt better. It was a grand room, too, but cozier somehow, with deep comfortable chairs, a thick rug, shelves of well-worn books and a roaring fire. The firelight gave the room a warm glow. Morse went to the hearth to sit before it. Soon, a footman in a livery was at the door with his record player and box of records.

Morse began to rise, but Max was nearer to the door.

“I’ll take those, George,” Max said. “Thank you.”

Max set the record player up on a long table under the window and began going through the basket, pulling out a Mozart album. Morse felt his hands twitch; he wasn’t used to people handling his records. But this was Max, he told himself. It was all right.

Then, a small, russet dog ran up to him in a whirlwind of barking. But as Morse reached down to pat him, he became a wagging mop of fur in an instant.

“Oh. Look at that,” Max said. “He likes you. Silly bugger never has time for me. Didn’t expect him to turn up. There. Now you’ve met everyone I suppose.”

Morse laughed. “What’s his name?”

“Hmmmmm?” Max asked. “Oh. Jasper.”

“Hello, Jasper,” Morse said.

 

Jasper wagged happily. At least Jasper seemed to have faith in him. He only wished he had a bit of that faith in himself.

 

Max put the needle onto the record. The contemplative strains of violins accentuated the mellow mood of the room, of the fire, of the dying evening light, of the rich woods of the floors and bookcases. It was a grand place, to be sure, but at that moment, it seemed like, one day, it might be home.

After one side of the album was over, another servant came into the doorway to announce dinner. Morse followed Max into the dining room.

“Is Strange joining us?” Morse asked.

“Strange has his own house, further down near the main road. Although he will be joining us from time to time when we have something particularly timely to discuss,” Max said.

 

Morse froze for a moment at the threshold of the dining room. The table was long enough to seat fifty. Would he and Max be dining here alone? Perhaps they should have just taken tea in the library.

Max walked in the room and Morse followed at his heels, choosing a seat beside him.

Then, a stream of footmen came by, one by one, offering various dishes from platters. It seemed a great deal of unnecessary pantomime.

Morse reached for the napkin and set it in his lap with a snap of linen.

Max seemed distracted. Perhaps once they began working together, Morse would have more to say, have some question about the estate to clear up these cloudy spells. They ate in silence. When they were finished, Morse took the napkin from his lap and raised it to his lips.

 

But then, something made him hesitate. There was something embroidered on it, in thick black, silk thread. He pulled it away and looked at it.

It was a dramatic, flourishing R.

Rebecca.

Had this been her place then? Perhaps he should have chosen a different chair?

Or the better question to ask might be: who put this here at all? Surely it should have been packed away by now.

He set the napkin beside his plate, and, when Max wasn’t looking, he wiped his mouth against his sleeve.

******

When they returned to the library, Max picked up a batch of letters and Morse went straight to his record player.

Odd.

He could have sworn they had left the Mozart on the turntable. Instead, it had been replaced Verdi's Othello.

Had someone been in here, going through his things?

He opened his mouth to ask Max what he thought, but then changed his mind. It was just some harmless prank by one of the servants, most likely. Just like the waiters in posh restaurants, they most likely resented waiting on someone like him. If he complained to Max, it would just make things worse. He would just have to hope he could win them over, that they would get used to him.

Just then, Mrs. Danvers came and stood in the doorway.

“Mrs. Danvers,” Mr. DeBryn said casually. “The work in the East Wing didn’t give you all any trouble, I hope.”

“No sir. The crew finished just yesterday. The men tried, but they were unable to move your large wardrobe from the West Wing, however. Mr. Bright has selected two others for your room instead. I thought you might like to see the rooms, make sure everything meets with your approval, before we disband the crew.”

“I want to finish this letter, and I’ll be up in a bit.” He turned to Morse. “Why don’t you go with Mrs. Danvers, and see your room. Your cases have been bought up, you can get settled.”

Morse still stood before his record player, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’d imagined they would spend the evening here and go upstairs together. The thought of going through dim corridors alone with the rather grim Mrs. Danvers was rather alarming.

Max studied him over his glasses and raised his brows.

“Run along then.”

Well, how could he argue with a dismissal like that?

 

 *****

Morse felt self-conscious of his footsteps echoing through the Great Hall.

“It’s very large, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Danvers said. “Manderly is a large place. Of course, the Great Hall is used only for balls and larger parties. And it’s one of the rooms open to the public on Wednesdays.”

“That’s nice,” Morse said.

God, he sounded like a school boy on a field trip, not at all like an agent.

He followed her up another flight of stairs and down a long corridor, until she stepped and turned into one of the rooms.

It was a large and airy room, painted a summer green, with white sheer drapes trailing across broad windows that looked over the gardens.

Morse went to the window and looked out.

“You can’t see the sea from here,” he said.

“No, sir. It’s the West Wing that has views of the sea. You can’t see the sea at all from the East Wing. You can’t even hear it.”

She said this in a sneering sort of way, as if the room were defective somehow.

 

Ah.

 

A second-class room for a second-class person, then.

“I hope you’ll find the room acceptable, sir. Mr. DeBryn has never used this wing before. The entire wing was shut up for years, in fact. It was the guest wing in his parents' time. He ordered these rooms expressly remade for your return.”

“Oh?” Morse asked.

“His old room, the one he shared with Mrs. DeBryn, is in the West Wing. It’s the most beautiful room you ever saw. It’s twice as large as any of these, with a brocade ceiling. It’s breathtaking. And of course, there is a broad, open view of the sea. You can fall asleep there, listening to the waves.”

 

There was an odd look in her eye—like that of a a religious fanatic reciting her catechism. It was all a bit disturbing. He was beyond ready to be rid of her.

 

“It’s a charming room and I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable,” Morse said. “Thank you very much for showing it to me. Good night.”

 

She blinked at the dismissal and then turned and left, closing the door behind her. Morse went over to the bed and collapsed onto it. The less he has to do with her, he thought, the happier he would be.

He stared up at the high ceiling. He had never had a room to his own, not since his mother died. He had slept downstairs at his father’s, until he had been packed off to the boys’ home in Lincolnshire, where all twenty-seven of them had lived in one large dormitory. And at Oxford, he shared digs with various other students. And then of course, during his stint with Mrs. Van Hopper, he moved to a different room every few weeks, from hotel to hotel.

Morse sighed and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the sun was streaming through the windows. He sat up. He was still in his clothes, now distinctly rumpled. Damn. He only had two decent suits.

He looked at a clock on the bedside table. It was nearly half ten.

Dear God. Surely, it would have been expected that he would have made an appearance, shown himself ready to work, earlier than this.

 

He dressed as quickly as possible. Suddenly, he realized that he never asked Mr. DeBryn where he should report in the morning.

 

He ran down the stairs, and, after several wrong turns, found the dining room. There were two plates set at the table. One held a crust of toast and a tangerine peel. So, Max had already been down to breakfast.

He found his way back to the library, the room he had so felt at home in last night. Maybe he should wait here for Max?

But the fire was not lit, and without it, the room felt much altered, sea-damp and dark. He began searching the mantelpiece for a case of matches when Mr. Bright, the butler, stepped in.

“Anything I might help you with, sir?”

“Oh. Good morning, Mr. Bright. I was just looking for some matches to light the fire.”

“The fire in the library is usually not lit until the afternoon,” Mr. Bright said. “But, of course, if you wish it lit now . . .”

The last thing Morse wanted to do was to interfere with the running of the house, have the servants find him demanding, resent him even more.

“Oh, no, no,” Morse hastened to assure him. “That’s quite all right then.”

“Mrs. DeBryn always did her correspondence in the morning room, just down the hall. You’ll find a fire lit there,” Mr. Bright suggested.

“All right,” Morse said.

He walked past with a nod to the man as he went, and set off down the hall, looking in the various rooms. What the hell was a morning room? Morse hadn’t the slightest idea.

He felt suddenly as if he were being watched. He turned.

Mr. Bright was still standing in the hall. Morse must have looked a fool, trailing about down the hall from room to room.

Mr. Bright smiled, not unkindly, and nodded to the next room down.

Morse turned and went through the door.

It was a room bright with the early morning light, with tapestries on the walls, and ornate vases overflowing with pink and yellow roses. There was a small, neat desk in front of the windows. Morse sat at it.

He looked over the bits and bobs and books covering the desk and felt entirely inadequate. What was it exactly he was supposed to do?

Along the top of the desk were cubbies, under which labels had been written out in a woman’s flourishing hand. Menus, House Accounts, Letters to be Answered, Letters to be Kept, Guests, Occasions. Each cubby was filled with envelopes and slips of paper.

On the top tier of the desk was a delicate French style phone and a fragile china cupid. On the work area, there was a large gray blotter, a calendar, an appointment book and an assortment of cardstock party invitations.

He flipped open the appointment book. Inside, were words written out in a woman’s bold, flourishing script. He flipped to the inside cover.

  
Rebecca DeBryn.

Well. That confirmed it. The whole place had a woman’s air. So, this was her desk, then. And isn’t that what Mr. Bright had said? Mrs. DeBryn always did her correspondence in the morning room?

What on earth? Was Mrs. Van Hopper right? Was he somehow meant to be filling the role left vacant by Rebecca?

Or was that not so unusual, for a widower to hire someone to take care of things that the lady of the house might, if she were living? Morse had absolutely no idea.

The phone rang, and Morse reached for it uncertainly. Should he answer it?

He held his hand over the receiver for two more rings before reaching forward and pulling it up. As he did so, the china cupid tottered precariously. He reached forward with his other hand to catch it.

He slowly raised the receiver to his face.

“Morse,” he said.

“Hello. I’m calling for Mrs. DeBryn, please.”

 

What was this? Morse thought.

 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Morse said crisply. “But Mrs. DeBryn has been dead for nearly a year.”

“Oh, no. Not her. She’s not dead. I just saw her down at the boathouse Wednesday last. But if she’s not there now, I’ll talk to you. You’re almost as pretty at any rate.”

Morse scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You complete the sonnet, don’t you?” the strange man said. Then he went on to chant in a sing-song voice:

 

 ‘ _Two loves have I of comfort and despair,_

_which like two spirits do suggest me still._

_The better angel is man right fair,_

_the worser spirit a woman coloured ill._ ’

 That’s you and Rebecca, isn’t it?”

 

“Who _is_ this?” Morse said.

“Don’t worry about that. You should have other things to worry about, I would think. You nearly toppled that china cupid when you answered the phone. That’s one of the house’s treasures, that is.”

Morse spun about and looked out the window. Was someone watching him, to have known that?

“Who is this?”  Morse asked again. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I’m not watching you through the window. I have eyes everywhere. I even have an eye that’s not really mine. If you pluck my eye out, you might begin to see me, in fact.”

“Who _are_ you?” Morse demanded.

But there was nothing but a maniacal laugh. It was unnerving.

Morse slammed the receiver down.

And, as he did, the china cupid tottered and fell, smashing to the floor in a cloud of pieces and dust.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Morse looked at the smashed cupid in horror. Was it very expensive? He took a quick assessment of the room; it was filled with so many things, almost too many things—vases and crystal and white and blue china. Would they really miss this one item so much?

He reached down and scooped the larger pieces up. Maybe he needn’t tell anyone about this today. He’d already overslept and then gone on to accomplish nothing. Now, on top of everything, he’d broken something. Possibly some valuable antiquity.  

He opened one of the drawers and stuffed the pieces in, covering them with sheets of paper. He’d tell Max next week, after he’d at least had the chance to prove himself useful.

That is, in fact, if he _had_ proved himself useful.

With the toe of one shoe, he rubbed the dust deep into the carpet. There. No one need ever know. Or at least not just yet.

 

Just then, as sudden as a thunderclap, a tremendous roar of sound exploded through the room.

Morse jumped.

It took him a moment to understand what it was: an aria from Othello, turned up so loud as to be unrecognizable as music.

What’s this? Who was messing about with his record player now?

Morse tore out of the room and ran back down the hall, casting a glance in each room as he passed, trying to find his way back to the library.  Perhaps he might catch him at it, whoever it was who had been making his record player seem like a haunted thing.

 

This room, on the left: the library. Morse flew into the doorway and pulled himself to a stop in the middle of the carpet. He looked around the room and in each of the darkened corners. Without the roaring fire from last night, the north-facing room was cold and dim with shadows.

There was no one in sight, but his record player had been turned on, Othello placed on the turntable, the volume dial cranked all the way to the right.

Morse went to his record player and lifted the needle from off the record, contemplating it for a moment, watching it spin.

Whoever had called him on the telephone had been near enough somehow to see him. Could it have been the same person, playing tricks?

 

“Where the devil have you been?”

Morse whipped around, startled.

It was Max, looking annoyed, followed by Jim Strange.

“This is no time to be playing records now. I thought you might want to get started. Strange has cancelled his morning appointments to show you the estate,” Max said.

“I wasn’t playing records, I was . . . “

“Manderly is a big place,” Max interrupted. “You might not realize it yet, but a lot goes into running an estate of this size. We’re no longer on holiday. I’m afraid you’ll find that I have to keep on schedule; I won’t have time in the morning anymore to lollygag about.”

Max seemed quite on edge, much more so than he had ever been in Monte.

“But I hadn’t been  . . .”

 “Of course, you were. I could hear the music from all the way outside. How was it do you think we found you?”  Max laughed dryly.

“I . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Morse said. What was the point of trying to explain? That’s probably what whoever it was who had done this wanted.

If he complained to Max that someone had been tampering with his things, it might earn the entire staff a reprimand, giving them cause to resent him all the more. Then it would never end. He’d have napkins with Rs embroidered on them at his plate, his records switched, and God knew what else for the rest of his days here.

“Now,” Max said. “First thing we need to get cleared away is a bit of paperwork.”

At that, Jim Strange took a step forward, pulling a piece of paper out of a binder. He put the paper against the binder and took out a pen from an inner pocket, preparing to write.

“What's your full name?” Strange asked.

 

Oh, not this. Could this morning possibly get even worse?

 

“Morse,” Morse said.

“Morse?” Strange asked. “But what else? What’s your Christian name?”

“I never use it. I just go by Morse,” Morse said. Maybe they could just let this go and get on with the day.

Max sighed deeply. “Can our accounts man write out a check to ‘I just go by Morse,’ Strange?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

Morse scowled.

“Come, now, man, you’ve been cagey about this long enough. You aren’t still sulking because I said one could learn everything about you in four and a quarter hours, are you?” Max said.

Strange cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“No,” Morse said.

“Then what is it? Perhaps you will be good enough to tell us? Perhaps we might get _something_ done before eleven?”

Morse said nothing. He didn’t like this at all. Why was Max behaving like such a tyrant? He was worse than Mrs. Van Hopper, when it came to it.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you planning to make every simple thing this much of an endeavour?”

Morse’s eyes widened at this. This could not be a coincidence.

Max must have known, all along, just as he seemed to know everything else. He had just playing games with him.

Why on earth couldn’t he have simply written it down, rather than embarrassing him half to death, making him say it?

 

“Who told you?” Morse snapped.

“Who told me what?” Max replied.

“My name. How did you find out?”

Max frowned. “I haven’t found out, have I? I’m standing here on pins and needles, waiting with rapt attention for you to tell me.”

 

 Perhaps it was just a coincidence, then.

 

“Oh,” Morse said, his voice low. “I’m sorry. When you said that, I thought . . .  I thought you knew. Because it’s Endeavour.”

Max looked at him, his jaw tight. “What?”

“My name. It’s Endeavour.”

Max looked at him sharply; it was clear he thought he was possibly putting one over.

“No. Really. It is. My mother was a Quaker,” Morse said. “It’s a virtue name.”

“Oh,” Max said. “Sorry, old chap.” He seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt on this; presumably he would not lie about his dead mother.

“It’s all right,” Morse said. “I just don’t like to tell anyone. Usually, people laugh and . . .

“. . . And it seems as if they are laughing at her,” Max prompted.

 

“Yes,” Morse said.

 

Strange got his pen ready. “How do you spell it?” he asked, prosaically, bringing the conversation back down to the ground, alleviating the tension in the room.

 “Just like the word,” Morse said.

“Must have been quite a name to write when you were a kid,” Strange said, filling out the paper.

“I used to run out of room and put the OUR on another line sometimes. Or at least just the R,” Morse said.

Strange smiled. “Date of birth?” he asked, looking up from the paper.

Well. Perhaps if he said it at a rush.  

“Twenty-fourth of September, 1919.”

Strange paused at that but wrote it down without comment.

Max didn’t say anything, either.

“Sorry to be so short with you, old chap,” Max said. “I’ve gotten a letter from my sister in the morning post. She’s dropping by today it seems. Things between us—well, they are a bit tense, and I’m rather not looking forward to it.”

“That’s all right,” Morse said.

So, Max’s apparent bad temper had nothing to do with him, perhaps. And, of course, it was his fault for oversleeping. If he had met Max at breakfast, they might have had a chance for a proper talk, a chance for Max to explain to him what his duties were to be more clearly.

And his name of course. That was bound to be a difficulty. At least that was over and done.

 

 

But Morse still felt uneasy.

That disturbing phone call. _Two loves have I of comfort and despair. The better angel is a man right fair, the worser spirit a woman colored ill.  That’s you and Rebecca isn’t it?_  

That maniacial laugh.

And then there was the broken cupid he had hidden in the drawer. Mrs. Danver’s ecstatic face as she extolled upon the beauty of Rebecca’s room, making her look half-mad in the lamp-light. His Othello album, that seemed to be taking on a life of its own.

 

He had heard New York was a difficult city to navigate. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult, after all.

 ********

Once he was out making the rounds with Strange, Morse’s mood began to turn. Maybe he wouldn’t be half bad at this, after all. He didn’t know anything about planning galas or hosting soirees, or about what was in or out of fashion, but it was impossible to have spent a childhood roaming around Lincolnshire without having some sense of the land.

It seemed all a matter of keeping organized—and Morse excelled at that as well. Strange kept a thick binder, in which he kept track of the tenants and rents, the land use and enterprises.

 

Strange explained how he had stepped into the job seven years ago, when the agent hired by the old gentleman, Max’s father, retired. That it was that former agent who had kept the estate afloat during all of the changes after the Great War, he who had taught Strange everything he knew.

 

They were walking back from a sheep paddock, when Morse asked, “Do you think there will be another war, then?”

Strange looked grim. “Honestly? I do.”

Morse looked at him, surprised. It was not really the thing to say—everyone seemed to hope that the war to end all wars would have proven to be just that.

 

Strange must have noted Morse’s expression. “Hitler’s a bully. And in my experience, you can’t appease a bully. There comes a time, when turning a blind eye to evil is the same as condoning it. There will come a time when England will have to make her stand,” Strange said.

 

He said it so firmly and simply that Morse supposed it must be true.

 

Morse bent down and scooped up a handful of earth. Over here, on this side of the property, away from the sea, the ground looked rich, much like the soil in Lincolnshire.

“I say,” Morse mused. “Do you ever think of piecing some of these small parcels on this side of the estate together and growing one crop?  It looks like wheat might do well here.”

Strange frowned, considering. “Things aren’t as efficient on the east side as we would like,” he said. “Two of the old tenants have died, and their land has lain fallow for years. That might be something to think on, that.”

Strange looked at his watch. “Oh, look at that. We’re all back on schedule. Tell you what, I’ve got a one o’clock with the accounts man down in Pemberly. Think you could do us a favour and run these reports back up to Manderly for me? Save me a good half hour, it would.”

“Of course,” said Morse, taking the papers. “I’d be happy to.”  

“Thank you,” Strange said. He turned and started making his way back to the main road at his characteristic, steady pace.

 

So, everything was humming again, then. Perhaps, if he got these reports to Max quickly, his oversleeping and the debacle over his blaring record player might be quite overlooked.

 

Once Strange had disappeared through the trees and was safely out of sight, Morse started running.

 

 

He didn’t stop until he reached Manderly. He flew around the corner and, suddenly, forced himself to skid to a halt.

There was a woman standing there on the walkway, dressed smartly in a tweed suit and wearing the same sardonic expression so often favored by Max. She was looking at him incredulously, as if she was stunned to be confronted by such a person.

Morse tried to catch his breath and self-consciously put a hand to his hair, attempting to smooth it down. He noticed then that, through running back as he had, his trouser hems were now splattered with mud.

There was nothing else for it.

“Hello,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he was. “You must be Max’s sister.”

She raised her eyebrows imperiously, but there was a twist to her mouth, as if she was amused all the same. “And you are?”  

“I’m Morse,” he said.

She startled at that. Then smiled.  “Oh,” she said. “You certainly aren’t what I expected.”

Morse tilted his head.  “What did you expect?” he asked uncertainly.

“Well, when my brother wrote that he picked up some “assistant agent” in the South of France I thought. . . well you can imagine.”

 

She said “assistant agent” in a funny sort of way, as if it had quotation marks around it.

 

She was laughing, and it seemed a warm and genuine laugh, so Morse smiled too.  

Then, she took his arm, and started walking with him back up to the house. “So, perhaps you can help me find Max then, yes? As soon as he got my letter, he probably went off and hid himself somewhere, am I right?”

Morse wasn’t sure what to say. It was true, he didn’t seem exceptionally pleased that she was coming. But somehow, he suspected, he wasn’t supposed to allude to that.  He opened the door for her and led her into the Great Hall.

She took a startled breath. “It never fails to surprise me,” she said. “I grew up here, and yet I scarcely recognize the place.”

“Is it much changed, then, since you were a girl?” Morse asked.

“Very much changed. It was all weaponry and coats of arms on the walls when I was a child. It was Rebecca who went through the attics, found what was of value, made the place the feature of women’s magazines. From day one, she was working to make the place her own, the showplace of Cornwall.”

“Oh,” Morse said. “I thought it seemed . . .”

“Seemed what?’

But Morse was spared from having to answer, for just then Max came in, filing though some letters, with Jasper at his heels.

“Hello, Dorothea, I didn’t expect you so early,” Max said.  

“Well, just think, now you’ll get my visit over with all the sooner.”

Max ignored this. “I see you've met Morse,” he said.

“Yes, impossible not to, old boy; he nearly ran me over out on the walkway.”

That reminded Morse of why he had been running.

“I have the reports,” Morse said. “From Strange. He asked me to bring them up to the house. He had an appointment in Pemberly.”

“Splendid,” Max said. “Let’s go into the dining room then, shall we?”

As they walked, Dorothea eyed Max critically. “You are looking much better, I must say. Monte has done you a world of good. You looked absolutely ghastly when I saw you last. I quite thought you were headed for a breakdown.”

Max looked annoyed at this. “What rot. I looked perfectly fit, as always.”

“Of course, you didn’t. You know only too well you looked a wreck.”

Max’s eyes flashed at this. “Rubbish,” he said.

 

Perhaps anticipating this visit _was_ what had made Max cross this morning, Morse thought.

Perhaps brothers and sisters always bickered like this. Morse would hardly know. He had lived with his sister only for a few months, before his stepmother had taken him to the boys’ home on the other side of the county.

 

In the dining room, they took their seats. Morse sat on the opposite side of the table than he had the night before, and Jasper settled himself by his feet.

Dorothea made a show of appraising the room. “You don’t think of making any changes, do you? A bit of a change might do you a world of good, breathe some fresh air into the place, if you are to live here again. Of course, you’re an awful stick in the mud about that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

Morse thought that fairly insensitive: if the man’s late wife had arranged everything thus, it was only natural that he might want to keep things as they were. And it wasn’t quite fair to say he hadn’t made any changes: it sounded as if he had ordered a complete renovation of the East Wing.

“He’s had some rooms in the East Wing redone,” Morse said, trying to come to Max’s defense.

 

But this, it seemed, was not the right thing to say, either.

 

“Have you?” she asked Max. “Are you staying there, then? I wonder why. It’s a bit poky, isn’t it? That’s where mother always stuck the bachelors, when they had those large galas before the War.”

“Yes. We are,” Max said with a finality that signaled that that was all he cared to say on the topic. “I thought we might move the pianos from that God-awful sea-damp conservatory in the West Wing, too—bring them back into the Great Hall, get the things tuned, now that there’s _someone_ in the house who knows how to play.”

 This seemed to be a double jab: by the first bit, Morse felt Max was letting Dorothea know that he would do whatever he liked with the West Wing, and by that second, he surmised that Max’s sister, like so many girls of her class, had been subjected to music lessons that didn’t quite take.

“You’d like that, yes?” Max said, looking at him.

 

Morse was so busy keeping up with the sibling sparing match unfolding before him, that it took him a moment to realize that the person who played piano was himself.

 

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Thank you.”

 

“You play, then?”  Dorothea asked, her discerning eyes swinging back to him. They were a bit disconcerting, but perhaps her change of focus would allow Max a respite.

“Yes,” Morse said.

“What else do you do? Do you ride?”

“No,” Morse said.

“Well, you must learn. There’s nothing else to do out here.”

“I’m fond of walking,” Morse said. “I’m sure I could wander about here all day.”

Dorothea huffed a laugh at this. It was sharp, but pleasant all that same. “You sound just like my brother. Content to go all day without breaking out of a stroll.”

Max made some rejoinder, but Morse didn’t hear. He had just looked down at the napkin he had unfolded in his lap. On it was a large, slanting letter _R_.

******

They had scarcely begun eating when Dorothea said, “You know there’s no getting around it, Max: it’s already all the buzz. Now that you’ve returned, everyone will be expecting no less than a Manderly ball.”

“Well,” Max said, tearing off a portion of bread, “That’s nothing to do with me, is it? That can be his affair,” he added, jerking his head in Morse’s direction.

Morse’s eyes widened in alarm at this. “But I don’t know anything about planning such a party.”

“All you need is to be organized. You seem a competent enough person. If you run into any problems, you can always consult Mrs. Danvers,” Max said.

Morse felt, if possible, even more alarmed at this suggestion. Max had reached down to take a sip of tea, but Dorothea must not have missed the change in his expression, for she was looking at him quite shrewdly.

“What do you make of Mrs. Danvers?” she asked.

Morse wasn’t quite sure what to say, but his silence must have spoken volumes, because Dorothea chuckled knowingly and said, “She’s no oil painting, is she?”

“She’s been a very competent housekeeper, Dorothea,” Max said.

“As you say. Personally, I wouldn’t want her lurking about if I were you—Don’t know why you don’t get rid of her.”

 

He had to agree with Miss DeBryn there; Morse quite wondered that himself.

Max’s jaw was working furiously on a bit of ham.

 

“What do you make of Chamberlain’s latest, then?” Dorothea said.

 

So, Morse thought, we’re straight on to politics, then.

 

“Not sure that I’ve heard of it,” Max said.

“Come now Max, you must know that the borders of the world extend beyond your little kingdom.”

“You know I don’t have your mania for politics, Dorothea,” Max said.

“Well, what with what’s going on, if you don’t care, you must be made to care,” she said.

Max blinked at her with the air of someone working to control his temper. “For God’s sake, Dorothea, I didn’t say I didn’t care. I simply meant that I don’t have the time to follow every speech and conference.” Max turned to Morse. “Dorothea is a journalist, you know.”

“Oh?” Morse said. “Really?”

Dorothea nodded, a faint glimmer of pride in her eye. “The Oxford Mail. I started out on the woman’s section—fashion and such. It’s been a bit of a climb, but now I’m on the news desk. It has been difficult, being a woman, making one’s way in the newsroom, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, being a woman is what spared me from being the one burdened with all of this.” She waved her hand about as if to indicate she was speaking of Manderly in general.

From that, Morse gathered she was the elder of the two; they seemed of an age—it would have been impossible for him to have guessed which was the elder and which was the younger.

 

Max seemed displeased by this last. “You’ve just never understood Manderly, Dororthea,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I certainly don’t.”

 

Morse felt rather as if he were swimming in a rough channel—just trying to stay afloat until luncheon was at an end.

*****

After the last plates had been cleared away, Max excused himself, saying he needed to discuss some changes with the kitchen staff with Mr. Bright, leaving Morse to walk Miss DeBryn to her car.

 

 

“You mustn’t mind me,” she said. “I’m known for being a bit direct. Comes from my work as a journalist, I suppose. I love my brother dearly, but we are a bit of a cat and dog, I’m afraid. Opposite temperaments, you know. Me? If I don’t like you, I’ll tell you to your face. But Max—who knows what’s going on in that odd mind of his. If I get angry, I blow off steam right away… but Max? He holds everything in, and when he does lose his temper,” she stopped and made a diving motion with her hand and a whistling noise, like a bomb falling through the sky.

She laughed at Morse’s expression.

“But I don’t suppose he’d lose his temper with you, you seem such a quiet thing,” she said.  

She turned as they reached her car.

“I know Max doesn’t like to hear of it, but he is looking tremendously better. We were all terribly worried about him this time last year, but, of course, you must know the whole story.”

 

Morse startled at this. He knew nothing, in fact, at all. What would make her think otherwise?

 

But before he could ask more, she was getting into her car.

“Well, tell Max next time I come up that we'll go down to the stables. You must learn to ride. Only thing to do out here,” she said.

“All right,” Morse said. Then she slammed her car door shut, started the engine and drove away.

**********

Morse walked back toward the house, looking up at the sky. The blue of the early morning had been edged out by gray clouds moving swiftly in from the sea.

In the Great Hall, Max was shrugging on his coat. So, the “conference” with Mr. Bright had been a ruse, then.

“Dorothea always manages to get me in a bad temper. How did you get along with her?” Max said.

“I liked her,” Morse said. “I don’t think she knew what to make of me, at first.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Morse said.

Max huffed a laugh. “Well, I shouldn’t worry.  If she didn’t like you, she would have told you right to your face.”

“That’s what she said,” Morse confirmed.

“Christ,” Max said. “Did she really?” He shook his head and disbelief. “Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk. I want to clear my head.”

“It looks like it’s coming on rain,” Morse said.

“You aren’t afraid of a little rain, are you?”

Morse looked affronted. He had no objection to a bit of rain for himself, but he did have only two decent suits. The one was rather rumpled and travel-worn from the day before, and the one he had on now was quickly becoming an utter mess.

He didn’t particularly want to tell this to Max, though.  So, he headed off toward the stairs to go to his room and get his coat.

“Where are you going?” Max snapped.

“To get my coat,” Morse said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Max said. “You’ll start daydreaming about something else and get lost, and we’ll never get out. Just take one from the flower room. There are plenty of coats in there.”

“All right,” Morse said.  

Morse stepped off into the first room off of the Great Hall, and pulled down an overcoat that had been hanging on a hook. It was a bit too broad through the shoulders and too short in the arms, but it would do for a walk with just Max and no one to scrutinize him.

“We never should have come back here,” Max said, once Morse had rejoined him. “Now it will be galas and balls and talking with people with whom one has no patience.”

“Like your sister?” Morse ventured.

Max huffed a laugh at this. “Quite.”

Seeing them pull on coats sent Jasper running and barking in circles.

“Yes, yes, we hear you,” Max said. “Come on then,  old man.” Then, he turned to Morse. “Well, let’s go,” he said. “I want to show you some of the grounds.”

 ********

As they began walking, the years seemed to fall away from Max. He had a round, smoothly-shaven face that was impossible to date. When Dorothea had been twatting him about his health, Morse could have supposed he was nearly forty. But now, striding though the heather with the sea-wind at his face, relaxed and smiling gently, Morse might have placed him much younger, perhaps even twenty-eight, despite the tiny edge of gray at his temples.

They passed into a broader field and found themselves knee-deep in a feathery looking, spring green plant.  Max reached down and snatched a piece, rubbing it in his fingers. Then he held it out to Morse.

“Fennel,” Max said. “It’s smells like licorice.”

Morse took the plant and held it to his nose.

“It does,” he agreed.

“How did it go this morning? With Strange?” Max asked.

“Fine, I think. It was all rather interesting. We had a garden at the. . .” Morse let the sentence fall away.

Max eyed him curiously. “The where?” 

Morse shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen rhododendrons so large,” he added, casting about for a change of subject. And indeed, the flowers that edged their path were immense and towering, almost overblown.

“They almost look like alien life forms looming down at one, with their wide faces, don’t they?” Morse asked.

Max laughed at this. “Oh, dear. I’m not sure I’ll ever see them the same way again.”

 

Ahead, the pathway was obscured, thick with trees and vines that created a dense cave of green. They walked through, and came out on the other side to find a sandy cove and the raging, deep blue sea.

“Shocking, isn’t it?  The change is so abrupt it’s almost too much,” Max said.

“Yes,” Morse said. It was all so stunningly beautiful. They had tried at the home to make things cheerful, but it was a grim little place, all the same. Here, Morse felt almost drunk with splendor.

Jasper seemed to agree. He was barking again, dancing in circles around Morse’s feet. Morse reached down, picked up a stick of driftwood, and threw it. Jasper raced after it.

Once the dog reached the stick at the other side of the cove, however, he began to growl, low and fierce. Then, in a sudden burst, he clambered over the hill of rocks and disappeared over to the next beach.

 

“Jasper?” Morse called.

 

There was a bout of even more hysterical barking.

 

“Jasper?” Morse called again, beginning to dash to the rocks.

 

Max caught his sleeve. “Don’t. He’ll be fine. Infernal animal is always carrying on like that.”

“But he might get lost,” Morse protested. “What if the tide should come in and he can’t get back over the rocks? He should be drowned.”

“He’ll find his own way back,” Max said.

Jasper barked again, and Morse turned away, setting off to climb over the rocks.

 

“Morse!” Max shouted, but Morse ignored him.

 

The wall of rocks was rather thick and high, but once Morse reached the summit, he saw what was the matter.

 

Jasper was barking at that odd man, the one who had watched him from around the corner of the house yesterday. Samuel, his name was.

The man stood frozen, while Jasper leapt around him.

“Jasper!” Morse commanded. But Jasper wouldn’t listen. Morse half-climbed, half-jumped down over the rocks, landing with a soft thud in the sand of the other cove.

“He won’t hurt you,” Morse said, trying to reassure the man, who stood frozen and watching with overlarge eyes.

“He’s not you’rn,” Samuel said.

“No, he’s Mr. DeBryn’s dog.”

Morse looked up; there was a boathouse. Perhaps there would be a bit of rope he could use to tie up Jasper, lead him back over the rocks to the beach where Max was waiting. It seemed odd, that Max didn’t follow to help.

Morse went over to the door of the boathouse—it was standing open. Samuel must have had just been inside.

“I didn’t do nothing,” Samuel insisted.

“It’s fine,” Morse said. “I’m just looking for some rope to tie the dog.”

It was strange—it wasn’t an ordinary boathouse, with bits and bobs and ropes and such. It was more like a cottage, with curved deep blue sofas and chairs and elaborate throw pillows. There were vases and candles. The place had a moldy air of disuse, as if it had been shut up. On one ornate table lay a pile of books that looked as though they had been nibbled at by mice.

“She’s gone into the sea, hasn’t she? She won’t come back, will she?” Samuel said.

Morse turned. The man looked frightened. Of ghosts, perhaps? For he was sure he must be referring to Mrs. DeBryn. The cottage had the same air about it as the morning room.

“No,” Morse said. “She won’t come back.”

“I never told nothing,” he said. “You can tell her that.”

 

God, what a strange man. He seemed scared out of his wits. Morse didn’t know what to make of him.

 

On a table, near the model of a tremendous sailboat, Morse spotted a coil of rope. He went into the boathouse and seized it, tying the end into a loop. He slipped it over Jasper’s neck, tugging at him a bit to follow. Once the dog had the feel of the lead around him, he seemed willing to come along.

“You won’t tell on me, will you? You’re not like the other one,” Samuel said, following him a bit too closely for comfort. 

“No,” Morse said, having not the slightest idea as to what the man was talking about.

“Come on, Jasper,” Morse called.

Jasper leaped at him happily, and together, they scrambled back over the wall of rocks, leaving the peculiar boathouse and the strange man behind them.

 

 

Back on the first beach, Max was waiting, the jaw of his round face set tight, his eyes blazing behind his heavy-framed glasses.

“What were you doing? Didn’t I tell you not to go over there?” he snapped.

“But I didn’t know. . . . if it had been only a small cove and the tide came in, what would Jasper do if he couldn’t find his way back over?”  

Max turned and started walking briskly back through the tunnel of leaves and vines. He was a few inches shorter than Morse, but in his fury, he moved so quickly that Morse, hindered by a lagging Jasper, had to struggle to keep up.

 

“Do you think I would have left him if he had been in any danger? There was no need for all that,” Max said, with a wave of his hand.

 

He continued his angry stride, thundering along the path, until he began to get further and further ahead.

"Max?" Morse called. "Wait!"

But Max ignored him. It was ridiculous. Max had made him feel wrong-footed often enough. Now who was acting like a child?

Morse encouraged Jasper to run along with him, so that they could catch up. Once he was back in Max's wake, Morse said, "It wasn’t any real trouble to go and fetch him. You’re just looking for an excuse."

 “An _excuse_?” Max cried. “My dear child, am I not master here? For what would I need an excuse?”

“For not coming with me over the rocks,” Morse said.  

Max rounded on him; it happened so abruptly that Morse had to stop short. “That’s right," Max said. "I didn’t want to go. And if you had my memories, you wouldn’t want to go, either. You wouldn’t want to see that place or even to think about it.”

“But why? There was only that funny man there, and that odd boathouse.”

“Samuel was there?”

“Yes,” Morse said.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He seemed afraid of me. He didn’t make any sense.”

Max huffed a bitter laugh at that. “Don’t let Samuel fool you. He can speak quite intelligently when he wants to.”

 “He seemed to be upset that he’d be in trouble about going into that old boathouse. There’s quite a lot of nice furniture and things in there, and books—everything is getting quite ruined,” Morse said.

“Did you go in there, then?”

“Yes,” Morse said. “I was only trying to find a bit of rope for Jasper.”

“Well, I’m glad the place is going to ruins. I hope it all goes to pieces. So, make of that what you will. I hope you find something in _that_ to indulge your vulgar middle-class curiosity,” Max roared.

 

But then they both fell silent, their row brought to an abrupt end.

 

They had just come in view of Manderly. In front of the house, were parked an unfamiliar black Jag and a police car.

********

Right inside the Great Hall, a broad-shouldered man in a greatcoat was speaking to a flustered Mr. Bright. The man turned as they came in, his dark eyes accessing them sharply.

“Oh, Mr. DeBryn,” Mr. Bright said. “I took the liberty of calling the authorities. Today was a touring day, and, after the last of the visitors had left, Mrs. Danvers noticed that the china cupid was missing from the morning room.”

The man in the greatcoat held up a warrant card. “Inspector Fred Thursday. St. Ives City Police.”

Morse swallowed.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. DeBryn said. “That’s one of our treasures, isn’t it? Well, if someone from the viewing public took the thing, I don’t suppose there is much chance of us getting it back. It could be anywhere by now.”

“That’s just the trouble, Mr. DeBryn,” Mr. Bright said. “It seems that Mrs. Danvers has accused one of the footmen, George, of taking it. George denies any such accusation. He’s quite upset.”

“Max,” Morse began.

Max put up a hand to silence him.

“Have you had a chance to speak to them already, Inspector Thursday?”

“I have. Bit of a tangle, I’m afraid. Just one person’s word against the other. Thought I might take a look-see around the room if you don’t mind. See what I might pick up,” Inspector Thursday said.

“Max?” Morse said.

But Max ignored him.

“Of course, Inspector. Thank you,” Max said. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Max?” Morse said again.  

Max turned on Morse. “Yes? Good heavens, man, what is it?”

“George didn’t steal the cupid.”

Inspector Thursday looked at him sharply. “How do you know this?” he asked.

“Because I broke it.”

“You broke it?” Max said. “Well, then where is it?”

“I . . .  I hid the pieces in one of the drawers.”

“Why the devil would you do that? Why didn’t you simply say so when it happened?” Max asked.

“I don’t know . . . . I didn’t like to,” Morse said.

 

Max rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Bright, do be so good as to tell Mrs. Danvers it’s all been a false alarm. It seems our new agent broke the damn thing and was afraid we’d stand him in the corner. And tell George to dry his tears.”

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Bright said.

Max turned to Inspector Thursday. “I’m terribly sorry for all of this.”

Thursday flashed an impatient look. “I should say so. If it wasn’t Manderly, we wouldn’t have come out for a simple theft. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation.” He looked at Morse with a face full of thunder, and Morse felt himself taking a step back. “Perhaps next time . . .”

Then suddenly, from the direction of the library, came a tremendous roar of music. But something was jarring, something was wrong. Instead of just the music blaring, the air was filled with only one phrase repeating. Someone had scratched the record, so that one phrase played, again and again and again. 

Un bacio ancora

Un bacio ancora

Un bacio ancora

Un bacio ancora.

It was unbearable. Morse never allowed his records to be scratched thus—whoever had been playing these tricks with his record player had been careless. He was sick to death of it.

He tore out of the Great Hall and began running to the library. He would catch them out, this time. How dare someone destroy his record so?

But once he reached the library, there was no one there.

 

Un bacio ancora.

Un bacio ancora.

Un bacio ancora. 

 

Morse took the needle off the record and replaced it on its stand. He turned around. Max was standing in the doorway with Inspector Thursday, whose expression, if possible, was even more alarming than before.

“What’s this, then? On the record. What was that he was saying?” the Inspector asked sharply.

“Un bacio ancora,” Morse said. “One kiss more. It’s Italian. It’s Othello’s last line in Verdi’s opera.”

“What does he mean by that?” he asked.

Morse paused, uncertain. What had this to do with anything? “Othello sings it after he strangles his wife, Desdemona, in a fit of jealously,” he said, finally.

Inspector Thursday looked at him strangely. “Why? What was it that moved him to such jealousy?”

Morse had no idea why the Inspector would be so interested in Verdi, but it wasn’t as if he dared not answer.

“Othello believes his wife, Desdemona, has given her handkerchief to an officer, as a sign of her affections,” Morse said.

“A handkerchief,” Inspector Thursday mused. “Embroidered with a D. Desdemona.”

Morse frowned, confused. 

 

 “Where were you Tuesday last?” the Inspector asked, suddenly.

Morse startled. “I . . .  I was in Monte,” he said.  

“Monte _Carlo_?” he asked, incredulously. “Anyone attest to that?”

“I’m sure they could. I was staying at the Grand Hotel there. I’d be registered. Most people there—the porters, the watistaff, the clerks, would remember me I should think. I was there three months.”

“I can attest that he was there, too, Inspector,” Max said. “Perhaps you might tell us what all this is about?’

“We’ve got a woman, murdered, found strangled in an abandoned train car, with this,” he stopped and pulled a photograph out of his file, “written on the wall.”

He handed the photo to Morse. In the photo, on the wall of a boxcar, were the words: UN BACIO ANCORA.

Morse felt a chill. Why would someone scratch his record at just this exact place? He looked uncertainly at his record player.

Then he went over and took the record off the turntable, holding it carefully with his palms against the sides. He held it out to Inspector Thursday.

“Should you take this, then? Perhaps you could check it for fingerprints or something?” Morse asked.

Inspector Thursday was watching his face warily.  

“It doesn’t seem a coincidence to you" Morse asked, "that someone scratched the record at exactly the same words that a murderer inscribed on the wall?” 

“It does,” Inspector Thursday said. “I was going to head back to the nick to get a warrant for the thing. But you’re ready to hand it over willingly?”

“Yes,” Morse said emphatically. "Of course. If someone is sending messages about a murder using one of my records, I would want to know.”

Morse looked at the man steadily, and then slowly saw his expression change.

Oh.

He hadn’t thought of that.

For a moment, he had been on the list, then.

Quite near the top, actually. After all, he’d come out of nowhere, hadn’t he? No one here knew him. And here he was, with a record scratched at the same words inscribed over a dead woman in a train car. 

He might even still be on the list, Max’s assertion that he had been in Monte Carlo on Tuesday, presumably the day the murder occurred, notwithstanding. Inspector Thursday had just knocked him down a few ticks, that’s all.

 

“What’s your name, then?” Inspector Thursday asked.

“Morse,” Morse said. “Endeavour Morse.”

“Well, Endeavour Morse, if we have any more questions, or get any information off this thing, you’ll be the first to know. In the meanwhile, I ask that you not leave the county.”  He turned to Max. “How many people do you have working on the estate?”

Max raised his eyebrows. “The house staff is twenty-four, and then there are the groundsmen—there are about nine or ten working currently. As to the number of tenants, I couldn’t say off the top of my head. I’ll have to check the books.”

“I’d like to see them,” Inspector Thursday said. "I’ll need a list, of everyone working and living on the estate.”

“Certainly,” Max said. “That’s easily arranged. This way, Inspector,” Max said, leading him out of the library.

Inspector Thursday gave Morse one final look. “Mind how you go,” he said.

And then he followed Max out of the room.

 

 

Morse felt quite ill.

He sank down of the library couch, without really seeing the room.

Suddenly, he remembered that phone call he had received that morning. _Two loves have I, of comfort and despair_. A sonnet. Not so different from a phrase from an opera, was it?  A literary message. He wondered if he ought to have mentioned it to Inspector Thursday.

But no. He didn’t even want to talk about it. It’s was just too disturbing. _A man right fair, a woman colored ill… that’s you and Rebecca, isn’t it?_

 

And what had Inspector Thursday muttered to himself? A handkerchief embroidered with a D?  Was whatever the Inspector had been thinking of in any way connected to the napkins that appeared again and again on Morse's plate, embroidered with an R?

 *************

 

“Morse?” Max asked. And his voice reached him as if from far away. “Are you quite all right?”

Morse looked up. Max was watching him uncertainly. Then, he glanced up at the clock. “That took a bit longer than I thought,” Max said. “The Inspector is nothing if not thorough, that’s certain. It’s time to go into dinner.”

“All right,” Morse said.

He followed Max out of the library and went to the flower room, to return the ridiculously ill-fitting raincoat he had been wearing. As he took off the coat, he noticed something fall from one of the pockets. It was a handkerchief, embroidered with the letter R.

It carried a familiar scent. He held it to his nose.

It was like licorice. Like the fennel plants Max had showed him as they walked just a few hours ago.

**********

In the dining room, Morse was almost afraid to look at the napkin folded on his plate. He had kept changing seats, but it still seemed to follow him.

Max smiled when Morse took a seat two places down from him.

“So, Goldilocks, have you not yet found a chair that’s just right?” he asked.

Morse scowled. “What?” he asked.

Max raised his eyebrows. “At every meal, you sit at a different place. Can’t find one that suits?”

Morse shrugged. He didn't know what to say.

Just then, the footmen began their ridiculous procession, saving Morse from having to answer. He took the napkin and placed it in his lap, unfolding it where it could not be seen.

And there it was.

A long, slanting R.

Who was doing this? Why?

He was nothing like Rebecca. Just one look at her handwriting, that bold slanting script, filling out her calendar with assurance, told the tale. Morse had never even known what he might be doing the very next week, even.

Rebecca was someone with dramatic dark hair, Mrs. Van Hopper had said, someone who swooped into the house and immediately made it her own, Miss DeBryn had said. Commanding servants to move this and that, turning Manderly into a place of which Max could be proud.  

And Max had simply adored her, Mrs. Van Hopper said. And from what his sister had said, Max loved her to the point that the loss of her nearly drove him out of his mind.

They had spent summer evenings at the boathouse by the sea. It was the hideaway where they had ceased being Mr. and Mrs. DeBryn of Manderly and were simply Max and Rebecca. Morse wasn't quite sure how he knew this, but suddenly, it all fit—the surprising luxury of the cottage, Max’s anger at it being disturbed. 

Morse had violated the memory of the place, rummaging around, a grubby child looking for a rope for a dog who had strayed. His hair rumpled and curling with the damp and wearing in an ill-fitting raincoat. No wonder Max had been upset. 

So why would someone do this?

Bring up memories, ghosts of the past?

He’s nothing like Rebecca

He’s just an agent.

Or is he even that?

He still couldn’t see what he was doing here: was this job offered only out of pity, to spare him an exile from his home country? 

 “What the devil are you thinking?” Max said.

“Nothing,” Morse said.

*****

Once they retired to the library, Max went straight to a decanter of amber liquid sitting on a back table.

 “I need a Scotch,” Max said. “What a beastly day.” He held up a glass . . . “Would you like one?”

“I don’t . . . ” Morse began. But then he changed his mind. “All right,” he said.

Max collapsed next to him on the couch, handing him a glass.

Sitting before the fire, Morse began to hope again that things, in the end, might turn out all right. For this is just how he had hoped it would be, when he had first left Monte with Max. Just he and Max, sitting in a library, discussing the issues of the day. He felt quite sophisticated cradling the glass in his hands. _“I say, Max,_ ” he’d say. “ _What do you make of Chamberlain’s latest?”_ And they’d talk about art and politics and life deep into the night.

“Well," Max said. "I certainly didn’t expect this much sturm and drang on our second day back. Don’t know quite what to make of it,” Max said.

“Hmmmmm,” Morse said. “Do you think someone on the estate has anything to do with it? With that woman’s murder?”

“I don’t know,” Max said thoughtfully. “Between the house staff and the grounds staff and the tenants, there are one hundred thirty-seven people at Manderly, so it’s possible.”

“Christ,” Morse said.

“That’s just what Inspector Thursday said,” Max said, with a rueful laugh.  “He’s returning in the morning with some other officers, to begin inquiries. If the scratch on your record is at all related to the message left by the murderer . .”

“It seems an awful coincidence, doesn’t it? . . . .” Morse interjected.

“It does,” Max said.  “Then they should be able to perhaps knock the numbers down a bit, try to determine who might have had an opportunity to slip into the house and tamper with the thing.”

Morse felt a chill wash over him. If that were the case, the most likely suspects would be among the house staff—they were the ones with the easiest access to his record player. Although there had been a tour today . . . could it have been some member of the viewing public?

Unlikely, as this afternoon was not the first time someone had singled out his Othello album.

Should he not have mentioned that to Inspector Thursday?

But the most disturbing thought of all was: Was it someone from the house staff? Were they now sharing a roof with a murderer?

“That wasn’t you then earlier? This morning? That wasn’t you blasting Verdi, was it?” Max asked.

“No,” Morse said.

“No. I didn’t think it could have been. After all, you had been with me for hours when it suddenly began to play again. Why didn’t you say that it wasn’t you? That someone else had been messing about with the thing?”

“I did,” Morse said. “You just didn’t seem to believe me.”

“Oh,” Max said. “Sorry about that, old chap.”

Then he huffed a laugh. “You certainly were quick to supply your name to Inspector Thursday.”

Morse’s eyes widened. “I had to, didn’t I? He’s a police officer.” Morse paused and then added, “And besides, he’s a bit intimidating.”

Max laughed at that. “Meaning I am not?”

Morse hesitated. “Well, you are a little.”

“But not so much that you felt compelled to admit your name?” Max prompted.

“No,” Morse said. “Not that much.”

Max laughed robustly at this. He certainly was difficult to understand sometimes.

Morse tried a sip of Scotch. It tasted like fire, just like the fire he watched flickering before him. It took him quite by surprise. He must have startled a bit, because Max looked at him bemusedly.

Then Max shrugged and downed his Scotch in one go.

Perhaps that was how one was supposed to drink it?  So one didn’t quite have to taste it?

Morse did the same.

“Another?” Max said, pulling himself up off the couch.

 “All right,” Morse said again.

 

They sat for a while in silence, sipping Scotch and watching the dancing flames beyond the hearth. Morse began to feel warm and slow and delightedly, deliciously heavy. He couldn’t say why, but suddenly he felt free to ask what he had been wondering all day.

“Max?”

“Hmmmmmm?”

“Did you really need someone? I mean, it does seem as if you have Strange to manage the land, and Mrs. Danvers to run the house.”

“That was all well and good when I was away. But now that I’m back, they’ll be lots more expected at the estate.”

“That ball,” Morse said, unenthusiastically.

“Yes,” Max said.

Morse took another sip of the Scotch.

“But I don’t know anything about such things. All I did was make travel arrangements and write letters.”

“Nonsense. All you need to have is some organizational skills and a bit of imagination. I’ve seem you disappear often enough into your daydream world. Just pretend you’re an Indian raja, planning a conference of all the princes and princesses of India. Instead of elephants and silks and spices it will be ice sculptures and wine and cheese. Simple.”

Morse snorted at that. It didn't sound exceptionally simple.

“Besides,” Max said, and then he looked at him, and it was that young, forthright look, the one he wore when he was just with Morse. “You’ve been here a day,” he said, ruefully. “Do you honestly think I couldn’t do with an ally here?”

Morse was forced to laugh at this.

“No,” he conceded.

“No,” Max said.

The fire was warm and Morse’s head felt heavy and fuzzy. This is just how he had thought it might be—just he and Max. He had never imagined there would be so many people at Manderly. When Max was with him alone, he was quite a different person.

There weren’t phone calls and scratched records and napkins placed by who knew which servant. When it was he and Max alone, away from the shadows of the past, it was just the heather and the sky and the sea and a sense that . . . 

 

 

When Morse opened his eyes, he realized the room had grown darker. The roaring fire was now reduced to crackling red embers, casting the room in a warm glow. He was lying on the couch, his head resting against something solid and warm. He tried to move, but he felt heavy and strange.

Then, he realized that a hand was carding gently through his hair, pulling it softly back from his forehead.  He burrowed his head into the warmth, closed his eyes and sighed. 

Wait.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look up.  

Max was there, his face solemn and still, looking down on him. Morse realized that he must have fallen asleep— that somehow—Oh, God— he had slipped down and had fallen asleep with his head resting heavily in Max’s lap. He stirred to sit up, but Max’s hand carded through his hair again, in a silent encouragement for him to stay where he was.

So he did.

Morse wasn’t sure how long he lay there; he knew he should sit up, but the hand was moving so gently and Max looking at him so steadily, that he felt powerless to move. Morse could not remember the last time he had been touched with such a degree of tenderness, the last time anyone had looked at him as if he were something worthwhile, perhaps even precious.

Then Max’s gaze dropped to his lips. He traced Morse's lower lip with his thumb, sending a shiver through him despite the warmth of the room.

Morse looked up at Max, his eyes pouring over his face. Morse wasn't sure why—what Max must have seen in his expression—but suddenly, Max froze, as if he were afraid to move.

And this time, when Morse stirred to sit up, Max let him.

In one rush, Morse pressed his lips to Max’s.

The first few kisses were dry and tentative. But then Morse sat up a bit further, pressing his mouth more firmly against Max’s, grasping his upper arms in his hands.

Max seemed to spring to life at this encouragement: he held him steady, one hand stroking at his nape, while the other began working deftly, quickly undoing the buttons of Morse’s shirt. In an instant, Max's broad warm hands were splaying across Morse’s chest. With one thumb, he brushed over his left nipple, just over his heavily beating heart. 

Morse gasped at the unfamiliar sensation, and Max took advantage of his lips parting to deepen the next kiss.

Then, Max’s hands were moving lightly over Morse’s ribs, down and down until he took him by the waist and pulled him up still further—lifting him and turning him so that Morse was forced to scramble, following his lead, sliding one leg on the other side of Max’s. Max set him down so that he was facing him, straddling his lap.

Morse reached down, and, framing Max's face in his hands, kissed him again.

Max’s hands ran down Morse's back and then reached to cup his arse, pulling him closer, sitting him more upright.

Morse felt his breath catch; he could feel Max hard beneath him, his erection pressing up against the cleft of his arse. And he felt his own length harden, held tightly between their bodies.

Then, Max began moving his hips slightly, pushing more firmly up against him, sending a new and unfamiliar jolt of desire through Morse that brought his whole body singing to attention. 

In the next moment, Morse felt himself go utterly limp, as Max continued to press up against him in a firm and steady rhythm. Even through layers of fabric, the sensation left him speechless, and his head tilted back involuntarily so that he was staring blindly up at the ceiling.

A low moan escaped his lips, and Morse scarcely recognized that it was he himself making such a sound.  Max chuckled softly in the darkness, settling his warm mouth to plant a long kiss in the hollow of Morse’s throat.

Then there was a loud crack.

Morse jumped.

It was a log, turned to red cinder, falling in the fireplace.

“Endeavour?” Max whispered.

Morse’s head whisked around to Max. He could not believe it. Was he actually sitting in the man’s lap?

“It’s just the fire, Endeavour,” Max said.

Morse scrambled to stand up.

“I think I had better say goodnight now,” he stammered. 

He walked from the room with as much composure as he could muster, and when he got halfway down the hall, he broke into a run.

 

******* 

Morse stretched out on the bed and lay in the darkness, looking out the windows that towered over the darkened gardens.

It was all his fault.

Max had been a married man, after all. Had a married man’s desires and urges.

And what had he done? Fallen asleep with his head in the man’s lap, for heaven’s sake. What should he have expected?  

In the morning, he would go. It would be too horrible to ever face him again. He felt his face go red at the very thought.

Or perhaps Max would be just as embarrassed. Perhaps they could pretend that it had never happened?

Because, after all, where did Morse have to go, really?

And now he’d been told by a police inspector that he wasn’t to leave Cornwall.

What was to be done? 

 

“I’ll pretend that it never happened,” Morse thought to himself. "It never happened." 

Although there was another part of him that realized that what had happened was exactly what he had wanted to happen, what he had been waiting for since the day Mr. DeBryn pulled him down from the rocks in Monte Carlo.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Morse woke early the next morning, dressed, and slipped out of the house. As soon as he was outside, out into the slowly brightening dawn, he felt a sudden breath of relief.

 

Max would undoubtedly be busy with Inspector Thursday throughout the morning, organizing the staff for the Inspector’s inquiries.  

Morse had no desire to run into either of them.

 

He had given the intimidating Inspector his alibi and his Othello album, and he hadn’t, as requested, left the county of Cornwall. What else could be required of him?

And as for Max, the best course of action was to pretend that the night before never happened. He might not have lived long, but he had lived long enough to know that time heals all things. After the business of the day, the night would recede, and the embrace before the library fire would seem as a dream. And maybe it really was. After all, in the cool light of morning, the memory already felt like a hazy blur. After that second Scotch, the whole world, in fact, had seemed to be engulfed in a haze, to rotate at a comfortable distance away, floating in a bubble of warmth.

A long walk in the woods and then down along the wilding sea, and then he would come back, ready to face them all.

*****

On his way back up to the house, Morse noticed a car, a flashy red Jag, parked a bit far off of the drive, carefully hidden in some shrubbery. 

He paused. That was certainly odd.

He went up through the Great Hall and then made his way back to the familiarity of the library. As he drew nearer, however, he heard Mrs. Danvers’ voice, emanating from the room.

“You’ll have to go back out the back passageway,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jakes. I didn’t think he’d be back yet. Sometimes it seems as if he’s out all hours.”

The man called Jakes laughed at this. “Sounds like quite the agent. You know, Danny, I think I might like to stick around. Might be amusing, meeting the fellow. Old Max. Never thought he had it in him.”

“Now, that won’t do, Mr. Jakes, you really must . . . “

“All right, Danny, no harm no foul. I’ll be on my way. I’ll go out through the back passage. No one will even know I’ve been here.”

Morse stood frozen in the hallway for a moment. If he hadn’t wished to speak with Max or Inspector Thursday that morning, that was nothing compared to what he felt about having a run-in with Mrs. Danvers, especially if he was catching her at something untoward.

He ran back down the hall to the Morning Room, and slipped inside, hiding behind the door. He stood quietly, hoping they would just pass on down the hall, leaving him unseen. Once they were gone, he’d go into the library and have some more of that Scotch that was there in the decanter. Then he'd be ready. _Then_ he could face them all. Even Max. 

He pressed himself against the wall and stood there, holding his breath, when the door swung open further, knocking up against him.

“What the . . .? " said a confused voice. Then, the door swung closed, revealing him where he stood. 

Morse blinked. He was staring face to face with a man with sharp blue eyes, heavy brows and dark hair. The man took a drag on his cigarette and laughed. “Looks as if all of your discretion was in vain, Danny. Isn’t this Max’s new agent? Hiding behind the door?”

Mrs. Danvers glided around Mr. Jakes, so that she, too, could see him there in the corner. Her smile was like something right out of Hardy—the deadest thing alive to have strength enough to die.  

Morse felt an utter fool.

“I wasn’t _hiding,_ ” he said. “I simply heard voices, and I didn’t want to interrupt."

“So, you thought you’d just eavesdrop instead, then, I take it?” Jakes said.

“Mr. Jakes,” Mrs. Danvers said, reprovingly. 

But Jakes just laughed again. “I’m sorry, Danny. But it’s not as if anyone normal would think to hide there, is it?”

Morse felt himself flushing red.  

Jakes turned to Mrs. Danvers. “Well, Danny. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Mr. Morse,” Mrs. Danvers said, evidently trying to savage the situation with her characteristic air of brisk formality. “This is Mr. Jakes. An old friend of the family.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a stretch,” Jakes said, taking another drag on his cigarette. “I wouldn’t say old Max is too fond of me, now would you?” He turned to Morse. “Now, look, be a sport and don’t tell Max I was here, all right? I was just having a catch up with Danny. No harm in that, now, is there? Just because she’s a servant, doesn’t mean to doesn’t deserve the right to have a visitor, wouldn’t you agree? You seem an egalitarian sort. Not such a snob as our old Max.”  

Morse wasn’t quite sure what to say. Most people addressed Max as “Mr. DeBryn.” He hadn’t heard anyone refer to him as “old Max” before.

Morse narrowed his eyes. “But why? Why not just tell Max you’d like to visit? Why not just come to the front door?”

Jakes laughed. “Oh. You mean simply announce my presence? Like you do?”

Morse scowled.

“Look,” Jakes said, “Max isn’t too fond of me, that’s all. We go a long way back, and I just wear on his nerves. It’s easily done. You must know that by now if you’ve known him longer than a fortnight.”

“Is that your car there, hidden in the bushes?” Morse asked.

Jakes smiled, a wide toothy grin. “Noticed the car, eh? I’ll let you give it a spin, if you’d like.”

Morse recognized that for what it sounded like: What was this? Did the man think he could be bribed with the chance to drive his car, as if he were a sixteen-year-old? Morse drew himself up to his full height, which was about equal to Jakes’.

“I’ve got better things to do with my time,” he said.

But Jakes seemed undaunted. “Yeah, I can see that. You seem to have a full plate what with hiding behind doors and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.” He blew a steady stream of smoke into Morse's face. “Well,” he said. “I’ll just have to go out another way. Sorry Danny.”

He turned to go, but then he stopped, turned back, and added, “But I do hope you won’t say anything, just the same. I’d hate to think I’d gotten the old girl in a spot with Max.”

Morse hesitated. He wasn't particularly keen on falling even further into Mrs. Danvers’ black books.

“I won’t," he said.

Jakes smiled and winked. “That’s right sporting of you.” Then he strode out the door, Mrs. Danvers bustling along in his wake.

 

Morse stayed rooted to the spot until all sounds of footsteps had utterly retreated.

The back passage? Was that what Mr. Jakes had said? Was there some back doorway here?

His eyes fell automatically to a large, delicate Venetian tapestry, hanging on the far wall.

Morse peered out into the hallway and found it empty. Then he closed the door to the Morning Room and locked it from the inside, lest Mrs. Danvers and the man return. He approached the tapestry and pushed it off to one side. 

And there was a door. He opened it and peered inside; it appeared to be a hidden passage.

Could it have been Jakes, then? Coming in and messing with his records? He seemed to have easy access to the house.

And if was Jakes who was playing the record, might it have been . . . Might it have been he who . . .

Might he just have been face to face with . . .

 

Just then, the doorknob turned, as if someone was trying the door to the Morning Room.

“What the devil?” It was Max.

Morse let the tapestry fall and flew to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open.

“I’m sorry,” Morse said, “The lock must have . . ." 

 

“Where have you been?” Max shouted. “I’ve been looking for you all of the morning.”

“I . . . I just fancied a walk. I thought you’d have your hands full with the inquiries, so. . ."

“That’s odd. I would have thought _we_ would have _our_ hands full. I was under the impression that you were here to be of some use.”

“I . . . "

“Come along, now, quickly. The Inspector wants to talk to you, specifically, and it certainly hasn’t done you any good to have disappeared into thin air. Honestly. I would have hoped beyond hope that even you would have more sense than that. I’ve been running out of excuses to give to the man. I believe he thinks you’ve left not only the county but all of Great Britian.”

“But I . . . “

They rounded the corner, and there he was: Inspector Thursday, grim and unsmiling, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat.

“There you are,” Thursday said. “I have a question to ask of you.”

Morse was sure he had explained he had been in Monte Carlo until just a few days ago; surely his alibi would stand up. He’d been at the Grand Hotel for months; there were plenty of people who should remember he’d stayed there.

 

Or was he so invisible, they’d already forgotten him?

 

But the Inspector, it seemed, had another sort of question in mind. He pulled out a gold tag from his pocket and thrust it out toward him.

“Any idea what this might mean?”

Morse considered the tag, tilting it so the letters engraved on it shone in the light of the window.

“Ici loin du monde reel,” he read. He looked up at Thursday. “They are the last words spoken by Lakme, in an opera by Delibes, before she commits suicide by eating toxic leaves. From the Dakura plant.

Inspector Thursday’s eyes narrowed.

“Leaves, did you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at Morse thoughtfully.

“I’ll need you to come with me.”

*****

The old house looked to be abandoned, that much was certain. Rusted equipment lay strewn across the yard, weeds struggled up through the cracks in the paved drive, dying autumn vines tumbled over crumbling brick walls. It stood alone, with nothing but fields in every direction, as far as the eye could see. A more forlorn looking place, Morse had never seen.

They tried the door, but it was locked. Thursday gave him a look, as if to say, "well, there’s no point in knocking."

And Morse felt it, too, instinctively. There wasn’t a soul about. Not one living, at any rate.

Morse turned and gave the door a quick ram with his shoulder. It burst open, the wood around the lock long since going to rot.

The Inspector raised his eyebrows as though he were a bit impressed. Morse shrugged.

"It's just something I saw in a film once," he murmured. He certainly didn't want the Inspector to think he went about busting in doors every day.

The Inspector merely shrugged. "Well, whatever works, then," he said. 

 

Inside, the house was dusty and dark. Plates crusted with half eaten food left rotting in the sink gave out a stench into the still air. Grime covered everything; the shabby tables, the thread worn carpet.

They proceeded together from room to room, until they reached a set of narrow, wooden staircases. One, on the left, led up to a second floor; the other, on the right, led down into the basement.

“You go up; I’ll go down,” The Inspector said, switching on his torch.

Morse widened his eyes in surprise. Was that wise? Shouldn’t they stay together? Morse had no idea what was in the house, but whatever it was, it filled him with an unease that sent his heart pounding in his chest.

But before he could say anything, the Inspector had turned and was heading down the steps.

So, he made his way upstairs. At the top of the stairs, an open, curtainless window blazed with light, sending one bright beam stretching out into the darkness of the low-ceilinged house, so that he could not bear to look up at it; his eyes had not yet had time to adjust from the shadows of the house to the sudden burst of sunlight. 

He rounded the landing at the top of the stairs and wandered into a bedroom. It was deserted, the coverlet pulled slightly back as if its occupant had not known it would be the last time he’d be sleeping there.

Morse made one turn around the room when, suddenly, the lights snapped on, and a strain of music filled the air. He went out onto the landing and then headed down the stairs. The music was coming, it seemed, from the basement.  He headed down, wanting to call out Inspector Thursday’s name, but something seemed to render him voiceless.

 

He made his way through dark and crumbling cinderblock passages; it was a bit like a tunnel that seemed to get narrower and narrower as he went. Finally, he found the Inspector, shining the light from his torch on a small box record player, one much like Morse’s.

Thursday heard Morse approach and turned to him, the question clear in his sharp, dark eyes.

“It’s from Aida, sir,” Morse said. “Radames’ final aria. Just before he’s entombed alive.”

Thursday grimaced. “Cement mixer in the yard, wasn’t there?”

With a sinking feeling, Morse remembered that there was.

Then, suddenly, the Inspector was looking at some point over Morse's left shoulder, aiming his torch at the wall behind him, an expression on his lined face that looked as if he was seeing into another world.

“That looks new,” he said, softly.

Morse turned. And there it was.

In the center of the crumbing wall, a section of fresh brick, newly mortared.

Morse felt almost as if he might pass out with fear of the very idea; but then he realized, perhaps it might not be too late. Perhaps someone was there, hoping beyond hope that someone might hear them, someone might find them, so that they might be saved.

He looked into the corner of the basement and found a mallet. He took it firm in his hands and struck the brick. It gave way easily before each swing.

He swung the mallet until there was a hole large enough to look through. With a sense of foreboding seeping over his body like ice, he exchanged glances with Thursday, and, together, they looked through the space in the wall.

**************

It seemed impossible that the world should be so beautiful.

As they drove back to Manderly, they passed through the greenest of fields, teeming with life, and life in abundance—flowers stretching out to the sun, vines reaching out over the grasses, birds flitting in hedgerows, and the buzz of fine-winged insects moving over all. Even the wind was alive, blowing steady streams over the green in a gentle wave that felt like breath, that felt like love.

Meanwhile, that poor old man . . .

What was it the pathologist had said?

 

“Buried alive?” Nothing quite so quick, I’m afraid. This was immurement. Walling up. Cause of death would have been more likely dehydration than asphyxia. The organs of the body began to fail, delirium, madness. One could only pray his heart gave out first.”

 

And the man would have screamed.  Every passing moment must have felt like an age, just waiting in the darkness for the slow, cruel approach of a long-drawn out death. How his heart must have leapt at every sound, a mouse scurrying in the basement, a branch scuttling across one of the low windows, full of hope that a rescuer might come.

But no one did. He was alone. Utterly alone. No one had even missed him when he had disappeared. He lived alone and died alone. Locked in darkness.

Did he begin to lose his mind in the end? Was the world dulled by then, making his end less painful? Or was the world magnified, every fear made vivid before his eyes as he slipped into delirium? 

 

“Could you stop the car?” Morse asked.

“What?”  Thursday said.

“I said, could you stop the car? Please?” Morse said.

Thursday eased onto the brakes and pulled the car into park and then looked at him, his brows raised.

Morse sprang from the car; he didn’t run—he managed to keep his dignity that much at least—taking wide, even strides to a thicket. Then he fell to his knees and vomited into the grass.

He knelt there, hands braced on his thighs, gasping for breath, when he heard Inspector Thursday approach behind him, his footsteps soft in the damp earth.

“I'm sorry lad,” the Inspector said, and his voice, for someone so grim, was gentle. “I didn’t know it would be something like that."

He sighed. "I can understand gain, jealousy, revenge, even. But killing just for the sheer hell of it? That’s something new." 

“It’s all right,” Morse said, gasping. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “It’s all right.”

“There's wickedness in this Morse. This is just pure evil,” Thursday intoned. “An abomination.”

 

********

*********

Max was already in the dining room when Morse got back to the house. He took his seat, this time without so much as a thought as to which place to choose, and stared down at his plate.

“My God," Max said. "You look like hell. Was everything quite all right, then? With the Inspector?”

“Yes,” Morse said, his voice sharper than he meant it. “It’s fine.”

He grabbed at the napkin folded on his plate and whisked it with a snap. And then he saw it. The embroidered _R._

 

And he was done with this. Finished with it. 

Because he was utterly spent by what he had seen that day.

And because this time, perhaps it was all too true. He _had_ kissed Max, right before the fire where most likely Max had once sat with Rebecca.

And how was it that this _R_ of linen and silk followed him wherever he sat? Perhaps all the settings had _R_ ’s hidden upon them?

He stood up abruptly, his chair falling back with a crash behind him, and began pulling the folded napkins from off their appointed plates, looking for that telltale _R,_  all down the table. But no. The other napkins were all blank—only plain ivory linen.

“What are you doing?” Max asked, brusquely. 

It was maddening. Morse shook his head in frustration. Why were so many place settings put out to begin with? Why were there so many seemingly innocent places where that ghost of an _R_  might be hidden among them? 

“Why is this table always fully set?" Morse shouted. "It’s always just the two of us. And there’s enough places set here for at least forty!”

Max raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t a clue as to what Morse was on about. “Holdover from tradition I suppose. From the days before the Great War. When there were constant callers and guests and a larger managerial staff. There was no telling on any given day who might be coming in." 

“Well, this is a dinner in bloody 1939, not some Edwardian spectacle! We aren’t having reams of houseguests and parties, and the staff must be half what it was before the War. Even Strange doesn’t come into dine.  It’s always the just the two of us. Isn’t it a tremendous waste, all of this?”

Max took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Without them, he looked round-faced and somehow younger.

He sighed. "What's upset you?" 

"I'm not upset!" Morse shouted. 

But Max just regarded him with his characteristic calm and impassive expression. “I think we both know what all this is about.  I was hoping that we just might . . . “ He blinked and shook his head slightly. “I’m afraid I rather owe you an apology. For last night. It was unforgivable of me, to put you in such a position. I must have simply misread the situation. That’s all there is to it. I'm sorry. I hope we might . . . " 

Morse drew a sharp intake of breath. He hadn't thought that Max would bring the matter up at all, let alone try to take the blame for the whole thing. He looked down, keeping his eyes on the smooth white circle of a plate, which was blurring dangerously before him.

And it was all nonsense. Of course, Max hadn’t “misread the situation.”  It was he, Morse, who had fallen asleep, passed out in the man's lap. It was he, Morse, who had kissed Max, not the other way around. And it wasn’t any chaste kiss, either. Not like the ones he had given Susan.

 

He felt as if a stone was sinking into his stomach at the thought. He could hardly blame her now for leaving him, when he thought about it. 

 

Meanwhile, Max was still speaking, but Morse could barely take in the words. " . . . quite a bit older, and what’s more, your employer, and . . . "

 

There it was. That sense of noblesse oblige. He was going to take responsibility for the whole episode.  

 

“. . . If you’d like to seek other employment, I’d be more than happy to give you a generous severance and a reference. I only ask, for friendship’s sake, that you don’t involve the police in this."

 

Morse jolted a bit at this, perhaps because his ordeal with the police was so fresh in his mind.

“The police?” he asked wonderingly, as Max spoke on.

“ . . . Some would call it, well, an abomination, what I’ve done and . . ." 

 

He didn't understand. An _abomination_? That was the word Thursday had used referring to the murder of old Ben Nimmo. How could the things begin to compare?

Mr. Nimmo. Trapped within the walls of his own home. He screamed and he pled for help, but he was alone, he was bound, he struggled and wept, and he was alone, and no one heard him.

And Morse could see it all, imagine it so easily. And why? Because so often, he had felt that way. He cried out and no one heard.

 

How could it be wrong, how could it be an abomination, to cling to the one person on this wide and windswept earth who, in his own strange way, seemed to hear him?

 

It didn’t make any sense, and he couldn’t make any sense of what Max was saying, and finally he heard himself blurting out, “It was my fault.”

 His voice erupted from him louder than he had intended. “I’m afraid. . . . You see. . .," Morse said, "I really don’t drink. My mother asked me to take the pledge, before she died.”

“The pledge?” Max asked, perplexed.

"Not to drink. Quakers don't typically drink alcohol, didn't you know?" 

Max looked stunned. “I should have known," he said. "That face you made.” And then, suddenly Max was laughing quietly. “I hadn’t seen anything quite like it. I thought you just considered it to be terrible stuff. And that was my best Glenfiddich, too.”

Morse smiled. He didn’t mind Max laughing at him. It seemed like something magic, a sound so rarely heard, but with the power to make everything all right, to make everything just as it was.

Then, Max smiled ruefully.  “So, the old alibi of too much drink then. It suits this purpose as well as any other. We’ll just put the whole business behind us then, shall we? No need to say any more about it.”

“Yes,” Morse said. “All right.”

******

Morse lay for a long time, looking up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It seemed as if so many things had happened that day, that any time he closed his eyes, his mind was all a jumble of broken images. Finally, he rose and dressed, slipping down the stairs and out the doors of the Great Hall, out into the dark garden. A brisk walk in the night air would be just the thing to clear his head.

He went down through the woods and through the fields of fennel and out along the hidden beach, where the sea was wild with waves. They were loud, bashing against the rocks, churning down against the shore in a passion, making certain that their swan songs were heard.

He couldn’t believe it was just yesterday afternoon that he had walked here. It felt as if ages had passed. 

He had forgotten all about the meeting with Mr. Jakes. The man was a piece of work, that was to be sure, but somehow, he couldn’t believe him to be capable of anything so cruel as what he had seen at the forgotten farmhouse. There was a candor about him, a frankness that seemed too light for something so heinous.

Although what did he know? He was hardly a detective. He couldn’t even seem to be capable of unraveling the mystery of his own life, his own heart.

Well, no matter. Tomorrow he would get up and begin planning that ludicrous party. Somewhere in the world, someone out there might be walled up and screaming, even at the same moment that he, Morse, made phone calls about engraved invitations and stringed quartets.

This must be what it means to be an adult, he thought. To know that that’s how the world works. And somehow you get up and you get on with things despite the fact.

 

It was pointless to give last night another thought. From the distance of a day, it was easy to see what it had all been about. A lonely man, desperate with mourning, with loss. A drink or two. And there you are. Max could close his eyes and pretend he was Rebecca.

After all, it wasn’t as if any one would ever want him in that way. He should have understood that by now.

 

He stopped and took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and walked up to his knees into the sea. The waves pounded against his shins, and then drew back, seeking to pull him along with them.

He would follow their rhythm. That's how he would get along. He would learn not to think about things overmuch. He would take one step, and then another, and somehow, he'd manage to make it through.  

 It was just as the pathologist said.

One could only hope his heart gave out first.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Morse walked back up to the shore and lay down on the damp sand, looking up at the spattering of stars that spilled out across the vast darkness, at all of the millions of drops of glittering white light.

 

Looking at them thus was almost like looking within his own mind—all the scattered thoughts of the past few days shining and shimmering and vying for his attention across a background of unanswered questions, against a background of deepest, velvet black.

If only there were a way to set his thoughts in some sort of order, the way the stars might be grouped into constellations.

 

His scratched Othello record. That disturbing phone call.

It was those two things that refused to fit in neatly, that made the events of the last few days such a puzzle.

  

It seemed sometimes as if Morse was looking at two different games at once—one far more sinister, far more vicious than the other.

 

First, there were murders that Inspector Thursday was investigating—and so far, Morse felt certain that there had been at least three.

There was the woman who had been found in the boxcar with the words _Un_ _Bacio_ _Ancora_ scrawled across the wall.

Then, Thursday had asked him about those words from Lakme, “Ici loin du monde reel.” Thursday seemed very interested in Morse’s explanation of the phrase.

 

“Leaves, did you say?” he had asked.

 

Morse didn’t know the details, but he would bet that those words had been left with yet another victim, perhaps one who had been poisoned by toxic leaves.

 

And then, of course, there was Ben Nimmo, entombed alive in his own home, an Aida album poised to play as soon as  the power cut on. Morse had seen that with his own eyes. And he was certain that he would never forget it.

 

Three murders, at the very least, then. And what was more, the murderer seemed to be leaving messages with each victim—it was clear that he was playing some sort of game with the police. It was something sick, something twisted, just as Thursday had said. Killing for the sheer hell of it.

 

In the meanwhile, so many odd little things kept happening at Manderly—his Othello record mysteriously playing of its own accord, those ghostly linen napkins embroidered with the letter _R_ that seemed to follow him wherever he sat, that strange phone call, asking for Mrs. DeBryn. It was a game that paled in comparison to the other, but it was still the same sort of game.

 

Such pranks could simply be dismissed as the work of a disgruntled servant—anyone who resented having to wait on Morse, anyone hoping to unnerve him, or even goad him into leaving.

But then, there were similarities, parallels between the incidents and the messages left by the murderer.

 

There was that snippet of a Shakespearean sonnet, for example, inserted into a prank telephone call meant, on the surface, only to humiliate him:

 

_"Two loves have I of comfort and despair._

_which like two spirits to suggest me still._

_The better angel is a man right fair,_

_the worser spirit a woman colored ill."_

_That’s you and Rebecca isn’t it?_

 

It wasn’t from opera, but it was still a literary message of sorts, wasn’t it? 

 

And then there was that violent little detail—“if you pluck my eye out, you might begin to see me,” the caller had said.

What was that supposed to mean?

Unless it was another sort of game? A word game, perhaps? Take the letter “i” out from a word, possibly?

 

And then, the most telling link: his record. It could not possibly be a coincidence that it should be scratched at just that phrase, the one found with the woman in the boxcar:

Un bacio ancora

Un bacio ancora

Un bacio ancora

 

Morse sighed.

Who could fathom what it all meant?

 

The lull of the sound of the waves left him feeling heavy and slow. He rested his eyes and listened to the rushing water, the only sound in the still summer night.

 

Un bacio ancora

Just one kiss more . . .

Just one kiss . . . .

 

And Morse wasn’t lying on the dampened beach, but sitting, lazy and contended, in a deep sofa before a crackling fire. Max sat down beside him, so close that he could feel the warmth of him pressing up against him. Morse reached his hands to Max’s face and closed his eyes and leaned in and . . .

 

He sat up abruptly.

 

There was a sound, from somewhere behind him, like an animal scurrying through the brush.

Then, there was a creak from the door of the old boathouse.

Morse slowly rose to his feet, slid his shoes back on, and approached the abandoned cottage.

 

In the darkness, the cottage seemed a haunted place, the moonlight reflecting in the old, warped glass of the windows, creating the illusion of spectral faces looking out from there.

There was a sudden stir of summer wind, and the door creaked again: it was standing open.

 

“Hello?” Morse called.

  

Morse walked up to the threshold; all inside was cast in shadow, the wavering, watery moonlight illuminating the abandoned books and furniture, creating the appearance of movement where there was none.

A scuttle of sound reverberated in the depths of the room, as if someone was there, someone hiding in the darkness. 

“Hello?” he called again.

 

Suddenly, a man stood up, a man who had been crouching behind the sofa.

Morse jumped and inhaled sharply.

 

 “I didn’t do nothing,” a voice said.

 

Morse blew a steady stream of air out again; he almost could have fallen over out of sheer relief. It was only Samuel.

 

“Samuel?” Morse called out, trying to inject his voice with brisk authority. “What are you doing? You know Mr. DeBryn doesn’t like anyone messing about in here.”

“I was only looking,” he said. “I didn’t take nothing.”

“That’s fine, Samuel. But you had better come out at once, all the same,” Morse said.

 

He came then, twisting his poor cap in his hands, skulking and obsequious in the shadows.

 

“You won’t tell on me, will you? You’re not like the other one. You’ve got kind eyes. You won’t put me in the asylum, will you? They’s cruel to people in the asylum,” he said.   

“No one is going to put you in asylum, Samuel.”

 

The strange man smiled his blank smile, then, looking pleased.

 

“I know’d you wasn’t like her,” he said. “Here,” he added, putting out his hand, as if to offer him something.

Morse frowned and put out his hand, his palm lying open. Samuel placed a shell in it.

“That’s your’n,” he said. “You aren’t like the other one. Tall and dark, she was, as quiet as the night. She gave you the feeling of a snake, she did. Once I came by here, and she told me, ‘Why are you looking through this window? If I catch you spying on me again, I’ll have you put into the asylum. You won’t like that. They’re cruel to people in the asylum.’”  

 

Morse blinked; it was alarming. As soon as he began to mimic whatever woman had once spoken to him, Samuel’s voice changed, from slow and plodding to quick and brisk, as if he were emulating her from memory.

 

It made no sense—who would frighten the poor man so? Perhaps he had been caught spying once, through a window, and had been admonished? It might have been years and years ago, and the incident had haunted the man’s fractured memory ever since.

 

 “No one is going to put you into the asylum, Samuel. But you musn’t go in there anymore, all right?”  

“I didn’t do nothing,” he said.

“It’s very late,” Morse said. “You had better be going home now.”

“Eh?”

“You had better be going home now, Samuel.”

Samuel nodded then, and backed away, until he reached the tunnel of vine. Morse waited until he was out of sight, and then went to close the door to the cottage.

 

It was a shame such a beautiful place should be left to go to ruin. Morse supposed that Max couldn’t bear to be faced with his memories—the memories of all the happy times he must have spent there with Rebecca. Maybe they had talked about books, curled on the sofa, the starlight shimmering outside. Or perhaps they had taken the little boat in the cove out for a moonlit sail, or perhaps they had made love there on the heavy carpet—away from the big house, where they were master and mistress—where they could simply be Max and Rebecca.

 

Morse turned away. The solitude he had sought was shattered. They all said Samuel was harmless enough, but there was something in the way his voice had shifted when he mimicked the half-remembered woman that Morse found disturbing.

 

He walked along the cove until he climbed through the green tunnel of vine, and then, once he was back into the fields, he broke out into a run.

 

As he reached the house, Morse saw a glimmer, a flash of something pale, in the emptied west wing of the house. He felt a shiver run from his shoulders, down his back; it was as if the house itself was watching him.

He stopped in his tracks, looking for further signs of movement in the window, but it was darkened. He had almost convinced himself that perhaps it had only been a trick of the light, when he saw a pale hand reach out and close the shutter. The hand was so white in the darkness, Morse might have convinced himself that it was the hand of a ghost, if he believed in such things.

But no. It must have been Mrs. Danvers, gliding through Rebecca’s old rooms, keeping her own eerie vigil. Dorothea DeBryn had wondered why Max kept the dour woman on, but Morse thought he could understand it: they had much in common, didn’t they?

They both, each in his and her own way, were still in mourning for Rebecca.

 

************

 

By the time Morse came down to breakfast next morning, Max was gone. He had left a message with Mr. Bright that he was going up for the day to London, on business, and so he had left hours ago, to get an early start.

Morse didn’t want to sit at the long dining room table without him. What was more, Max’s absence made the outpouring of food that filled the sideboard seem all the more ridiculous: there was always so much put out each morning: dishes of salmon and bacon and several kinds of eggs, porridge and bread and rolls, fruit and coffee.

 Morse wondered what they did with all that was left over. Did it go to the servants in the kitchens? Or was it all simply thrown away?

It would have been enough to have fed his family for a week.

If his father and Gwen had had just a portion of it each week, perhaps they would not have sent him away. Perhaps he would not have added so much stress on the household by joining it. Perhaps his father and Gwen might have learned to like him, at least, if they could not love him.

It was painful, somehow to consider it, how much they wasted here, how much they took for granted.

 

Morse took a tangerine from the sideboard and peeled it on his way back to the table. He was quite tempted to sit in Max’s place—no napkin with an embroidered _R_ would be left there, certainly. But he was worried what Mr. Bright would think if he saw him sitting at the head of the table.

In the end, he didn’t sit at the table at all: he took his tangerine and went straight to the Morning Room.

 

He may as well begin trying to figure out how to plan that party.

 

He took his place at the delicate desk that stood before the tall windows, and began looking through all of the drawers. In one, was a white and yellow binder that said, “Manderly Fancy Dress Ball” on the cover.

He flipped it open to find page after page written in a woman’s bold, slanting hand, the handwriting he had come to recognize as Rebecca’s. Among the receipts and bills of sale, he found one for a caterer—Paulson’s Catering Service, in Kerrith.

He may as well call them, he supposed. Was that cheating, somehow? Or just giving the people of the county what they expected?

He picked up the telephone and began to dial; he spun the rotor once before he realized that something was wrong.

 

There was no dial tone.

 

Was the phone dead? He looked to see if the wire was cut .... but no, it was plugged firmly into the wall.

 

And then a voice came on the line. “Mr. Morse?” Mr. Bright said. “Is there any way I might be of assistance?”

 

Morse frowned. What was Mr. Bright doing on the telephone?

 

“Sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Bright. I was trying to call the caterer,” Morse said.

“Ah,” Mr. Bright said. “I suppose no one told you. This is the house line, sir. If you want to call an outside number, you need to dial an 8 first.”

“Oh,” Morse said. “Thank you, Mr. Bright.”

Morse hung up the receiver, no longer thinking of the caterer, but of that phone call. That explained how the strange man who had called him had been able to see him, how he had known that Morse was about to break the china cupid. He had been using a house telephone, then.

Morse looked out the window behind him; the Morning Room was definitely visible from the far reaches of the west wing of the house. Could someone have been there, then, watching him?

If it had been a woman’s voice, he would have immediately suspected Mrs. Danvers. She made no secret of her contempt, even resentment, of him. And from the weirdly obsessive way she had rattled onto him about the beauty of the west wing, he could well believe she might while away the time there, in her off hours.

Morse was mulling over the possibilities, lost in thought, when the telephone began to ring.

 

Morse’s heart leapt. Here, he had just been thinking about that call . . . and now . . .

 

He put his hand on the receiver and waited for two full rings before picking it up.

 

“Morse,” he said.

 

“Ah, Mr. Morse,” Mr. Bright said. “I was calling to tell you that Lady Crowan has come to call. We’re setting up a tea tray in the blue parlor.”

“Lady Crowan?” Morse asked.

 

Who the devil was Lady Crowan?

 

“But Mr. DeBryn is not at home, didn’t anyone tell her?” Morse said.

 

There was a polite pause. “A guest of the stature of Lady Crowan is not typically turned away,” Mr. Bright said, delicately. “And as Mr. DeBryn is in London and Mr. Strange is with the accounts man in Kerrith . . . .” he let the sentence fall away, and Morse was given to understand.

As third in the chain of command, so to speak, it was down to him to receive her.

“Very well,” Morse said. “I’ll go. I’ll go now.

 

As soon as he hung up the phone, he was tempted to pull the receiver up again. Where was the “blue parlor,” exactly? He hadn’t the slightest idea. But he was too embarrassed to ring back now.

He’d just have to find it. Surely, it must be somewhere near the front of the house.

 

Morse walked crisply through the hall, smoothing his jacket with his hands and combing through his hair with his fingers as he did so, trying to make himself look more presentable. He had thought he might just be working in the Morning Room, or going about with Strange; if he had known that he would be meeting a grande dame of the county that day, he would have put a bit more effort into his appearance.

As he passed through the great, yellow library, he crossed before a gilt mirror, hung over a mahogany table, and he stopped to check his reflection. His attempts to comb his hair with his fingers had only made it worse—it was still stiff from the salt air of last night’s foray on the beach.

He smoothed the tawny-gold curls and tucked then behind his ears; they didn’t  seem inclined to obey.

Well. It just couldn’t be helped.

 

He came out into a hall, and then past a large archway leading to a room that was painted a pale morning glory blue, filled with deep blue furniture. In the center of the room, an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair.

Morse gave a half-bow. “Lady Crowan? I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

She looked at him haughtily. “What’s this? Can Mr. Morse not be found?”

Morse blinked. “I’m . . . I’m Morse,” he said.

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she smiled, hesitantly. “Well. You certainly aren’t what I expected,” she said.  

 

Morse bristled at that. Hadn’t Dorothea, Max’s sister, said much the same thing?  What were people expecting? He knew he was young for such a job, but he hated to be constantly falling short of people’s expectations.

 

“Well, don’t just stand there, my dear,” she said. “Sit down.”

So Morse did.

“The county certainly has been abuzz about Manderly’s newest resident. Max really should have introduced you properly, you know, but as he is so poor at returning calls, I decided I wouldn’t stand on ceremony,” she said.

 

Morse wasn’t sure what to say to that, exactly, so he simply began pouring out the tea. Or was he supposed to wait for George to come in and do that?

 

“Where are you from, my dear?” Lady Crowan said. “I had heard you were from somewhere in the south of France, but you certainly _look_ thoroughly English, I must say. Nor do I hear an accent.”

“No,” Morse said. “I’m from Lincolnshire.”

She seemed to find this perfectly prosaic bit of information amusing. “Oh,” she said. “Lincolnshire.”

“Yes,” Morse said. “I’m only the assistant agent . . . I’m sure that Max didn’t think it would be expected of him to introduce me into society here.”

“Assistant agent at _Manderly_ ,” she corrected. “You have not been here long, I take it, but you should know that life at Manderly is the only thing that interests anyone down here.”

 

Again, Morse wasn’t quite sure what to say. Considering the crimes that Inspector Thursday had been investigating, one would think that the people of the county would have more to talk about, more pressing concerns on their minds, other than gossip about Max and life at the manor house.

 

“Tell me, I was at the bishop’s wife’s tea yesterday, and we’ve heard rumors: is there any chance that Max might revive the Manderly fancy dress ball? It used to make the summer for us all, in this part of the world.”

“Yes,” Morse said. “I was just working on a few plans this morning.”

Lady Crowan looked surprised. “You don’t mean to say, my dear, that _you_ are organizing the thing?”

“Yes,” Morse said. “Max . . . Mr. DeBryn seems to think it’s all a bit of a bother, so he’s turned it all over to me.”

“Well, it’s an employer’s prerogative to delegate, I suppose. But are you sure you are quite up to it? Rebecca always had such a flair for that sort of thing. She made it the event of the year.”

 

What a tiresome woman she was. Mrs. DeBryn had been dead for not even a year, and Lady Crowan seemed sorry only that the party might not be quite up to snuff because of it.

 

“She used to have it catered by Paulson’s, don’t you know? They’re really the only place in Cornwall,” Lady Crowan continued.

“Yes,” Morse said. “I found her old planning binder. Mrs. DeBryn’s. I was going to ring them just now.”

“Ah, well,” Lady Crowan said, as if comforted by this, “if you just follow Rebecca’s plans, I’m sure you’ll do smashingly. She used to have the most beautiful little garden teas, with small tables set out amidst the roses, such a refreshing idea—but then, she had such a talent for entertaining, she always did everything so well. The place is already going to rack and ruin without her, I see. The gardens are looking a quite wild.”

 

Were they? Morse liked them as they were, but was that not quite the thing? Should they be more carefully cultivated? Was that something that he was supposed to be keeping in mind? Hiring extra staff now that they were in the full blush of summer?

 

“But then, Rebecca had such an artistic eye. A natural elegance, I suppose,” she concluded.

“Rebecca sounds like she was a wonderful person,” Morse said.

 

He could scarcely believe he had said it, that forbidden word, so casually.

And it was easy. He could say it. He could say it and show that the name meant nothing to him.

 

“Yes, yes she was. Such a shame it was. She was such a graceful, beautiful creature. I am sure Max must still be quite desolate.”

 

And yet, Lady Crowan still expects him to throw a party for the general amusement of the county. Morse flicked a look at the carriage clock on the end table, forgetting for a moment his manners.

 

“Yes. Everyone misses her terribly, it seems. It sounds as if she got on so well with everyone,” Morse said.

“It’s true,” Lady Crowan said. “I’m afraid the county has not been the same without her. But I’m sure your efforts will be adequate. Just follow her plans to the letter, and even you can’t go too far wrong.”

Morse took a sip of his tea and wished with all of his heart that Max was there. But no. Perhaps it would be too painful for Max to hear this all over again, this extolling of Rebecca.

It wasn’t as if he needed reminding of all he had lost.

It wasn’t as if her shadow wasn’t everywhere—in the scent of the fennel he had once crushed for her, in the cozy and forgotten cottage by the sea, and in the arrangement of every piece of furniture, the placement of every vase in the house that Max seemed to treasure so ... simply because she had once dwelled in it.

*****

It was a relief when Lady Crowan finally rose to leave. Morse walked with her out the front steps and watched as her waiting chauffeur opened the car door for her. And then she was gone.

 It was a glorious summer’s day, and Morse longed to be out in it, but he supposed the had better begin getting a _few_ things together for the ball, at least. Perhaps Max would want some account of his day, when he got in.

He had just settled himself back at the small desk, when Strange came to stand in the doorway.

 

“I was heading over to the apple orchards—wondered if you might like to take a look,” he said.

“Are there orchards here, too? I didn’t know,” Morse said.

“Yes,” said Strange. “Over on the far side of the property.”

 

Morse didn’t need asking twice. The chance to put all of this off for just a little while, to go out to the orchards on such a soft and sunlit day, was simply too tempting to resist.

 

They walked through fields of tall, sweet-smelling grasses, the sky so blue as to be something unreal, as to make all of the trees and cottages pop into life against it.

They were silent for most of their walk, and Morse grew so comfortable, trailing along beside Strange, that he thought perhaps that he might find the courage to ask the questions he had longed to hear answered, to learn what everyone else seemed to think that he already knew.

 

“That little boathouse down by the cove is going to wrack and ruin,” Morse said.

“Mmmm,” Strange said.

“There’s lots of nice furniture, books, all going to mold. It seems a shame that something isn’t done about it,” Morse continued.

“I’m sure if Mr. DeBryn wanted something done, he would say,” Strange said, tersely.

“Are those all of Mrs. DeBryn’s things down there? From the outside it looks like only a boathouse, but inside it’s quite nice, more like a cottage.”  

“Yes,” Strange said. “She furnished it that way.”

“Why?”

“She used to have moonlight picnics down at the cove, when she had guests down from London.”  

“Moonlight picnics? That sounds rather ripping,” Morse said. “Did you ever go?”  

“Once,” Strange said.

“Is that where she stayed, when she went sailing?” Morse asked.

Strange’s broad, friendly face clouded, seemed to close off.  Even he missed her, it seemed, sorrowed for this woman of myth who held everyone’s heart so firmly.

“Yes,” Strange said.

“Is that where . . . did she die there . . . in the cove?”

“Yes,” Strange said. “She took the boat out right before a squall blew up. The boat capsized. And she was washed overboard.”

“Did they find her there? On that beach?” Morse asked, and his voice sounded oddly distant to himself, as if someone else was speaking, as if he was not quite himself.

“No,” Strange answered. “Not until about two months later. They found her washed up about ten miles down the coast. Mr. DeBryn had to....”

Strange did not complete the sentence, but Morse supplied the rest of it in his mind.

Max had to identify the body.

Suddenly, Morse felt ashamed, disgusted with himself.

“Strange, I hope you won’t think I’m morbidly curious. It’s just . . . . well, Miss DeBryn seemed to think I knew all about what happened, and I don’t. I’m always walking on eggshells, whenever the subject comes up, because, I don’t know anything about it .... And I _don’t_ want to ask Max, of course, and ....”

“Mmmm,” Strange said.

“... And now I am supposed to plan this ball. Lady Crowan called earlier and it was all she could talk about. That and how she was sure it wouldn’t be as fine as when . . . as when Rebecca was alive.”

Strange snorted. “Lady Crowan ought to be lucky she’s getting a ball at all, let alone play the critic. But people here will expect us to entertain the whole county.”

He looked at Morse thoughtfully.

“I’m sure Mr. DeBryn will be happy with whatever you put together.”

“How can you be sure?” Morse asked.

“Because he won’t be the one who had to have had anything to do with it,” Strange replied with a ready wink.

Morse smiled ruefully. “No, he doesn’t seem to go in for that sort of thing.”

“He certainly doesn’t. But it’s part and parcel with Manderly, I suppose. And he does love Manderly. More than he’s ever loved anything, I’d say.”

 

Morse frowned at that, but said nothing. Surely, that could not be true. Surely, he must have loved Rebecca more, to have built such a heavy barricade of sorrow around himself, one whose walls Morse had only been able to see through a handful of times, in a laugh that was like a flash of sun on the spray of the sea.

********

When he and Strange returned to the house, the familiar black police car was out front. They looked at one another, frowning, as if each wanted to ask the other the same question...

What might be happening now to bring the police to their door?

 

Inside, right in the foyer, they found Inspector Thursday waiting. His dark eyes flashed when Morse came in through the door. He seemed to be waiting for him; he had not even bothered to take off his greatcoat.

“Ah,” he said. “Morse.”

Morse slowed as he approached the man.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I wondered if you might tell me what this is,” he said. He handed him a page of music, one that had been ripped from a full score.

Morse took a look at it. “It’s from The Mikado, KoKo’s song. It’s also known as the List Song, sir.”

“ _List?_ ” Thursday asked, sharply.  

“KoKo was the Lord High Executioner to the Mikado. He kept a list of society offenders he said he was planning to execute. The chorus runs, ‘He’s got 'em on the list and they’ll none of them be missed.’ Your three victims, presumably.”

Thursday blinked at that.

So, Morse had gotten the number right, then.

But, then, Thursday quickly recovered himself. “How many more does he have in mind—that’s what worries me,” he said.

“Blimey,” Strange said, looking sickened. “A _list_?”

Morse tilted his head. “Sir. . . . seeing as how the murderer is using these phrases from opera . . . . Might I . . . Might I help? Perhaps, if you showed me a bit of what’s been going on, I might be able to see a pattern to it. . . . After all, if it’s a list . . .”

 

He let the sentence fall away, but the implication was clear.

 

If the killer had a list, it was imperative that he be stopped before he had the chance to tick off the next box.

Thursday nodded, grimly. “I think, bearing the circumstances, that that could be arranged. Can you come to the station with me now?”

“Of course,” Morse said.

Morse turned to Strange. “I suppose I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said.

Strange nodded, solemnly, and Morse turned and followed in Thursday’s wake, out the door.

******

At the station, there was such a sense of purpose—it was with brisk and efficient authority that the constables thumbed through files, deliberated in corners, or wrote out notes as they answered the phones. The air was filled with the clacking of typewriter keys and the whirr of electric fans.

Thursday led Morse to a corkboard on the dark pea green wall, where photographs and receipts and notes and musical scores were pinned.

There was a photograph of the woman in the boxcar, pinned with a piece of yellow note paper that read, “Evelyn Bancour.” It was a jolt, somehow, seeing the name with the image. It seemed as if the two words brought her to life somehow, before Morse’s eyes. And as Morse scanned the board further, there, indeed she was, a photograph of her as she was in life—a studio portrait taken with her husband and two children.

And then, there was a photograph of an older woman and another yellow note. Grace Madison. And the metal tag that Inspector Thursday had asked him to look at, the one with the words from Lakme. And notes on botany.

And then, Ben Nimmo. Morse knew more about him, perhaps, than any of the constables here even did.

What did they have in common? A young woman, bright with life and fresh lipstick, an older woman who gave off the air of an academic, of old paper and cups of tea, and old Ben Nimmo, who had lived his solitary life in the decaying wood-framed house in a slaughter yard? 

 

Or was it a riddle, perhaps? Another game? Perhaps the secret lay in nothing so straightforward as to what they had in common. Perhaps it was some sort of word game?

 

 _If_ _you_ _pluck_   _my eye out_ , _you_ _might_ _be_ _able_ _to_ _see_ _me_ , _in_ _fact_.

Pluck out the _i_?

 

Something to do with music, perhaps?

Morse’s eyes fell upon the yellow pieces of notepaper, bearing the victim’s names. Evelyn, Grace, Ben.

 

“E, G, B,” Morse said aloud.

 

“What’s this?” Thursday asked.

 

“E, G, B, D, F,” Morse said. “Every Good Boy Deserves Favor. It’s a mnemonic device for remembering the sequence of notes on the treble clef. E, G, B,” Morse said. “Evelyn, Grace, Ben.”

“Christ,” Thursday breathed. “So the next victim’s name will start with a  .  . .”

“With a D,” Morse said.

 

*********************

 

“Anything happen while I was away?” Max asked, slipping into his seat at the head of the table. “Mr. Bright said that Lady Crowan called.”

“Yes,” Morse said.

“Well? What did she want?” he asked.

“She seemed curious about the party. If we were going ahead with it.”

 

Max made a funny little impatient snort through his nose and reached for a roll.

 

Morse wasn’t quite sure what to say.

 

“She . . . she didn’t seem to think I would be much of a success at it. She didn’t seem to know _what_ to make of me, actually,” Morse added, miserably.

“Well,” Max said. “If you met her in that rumpled suit, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Morse startled at that and looked down at himself.

“Well . . . my other one had gotten muddy around the hems. From when I brought you that message from Strange the other day,” he said.

“What? Did you cut through the woods . . .,” Max began. Then he paused, “What do you mean, ‘my _other_ one.’?”

Morse shrugged. “I only have the two suits, really. I don’t have . . . I’ve never had much money . . . . and I could always use the hotel laundry service, when I worked for Mrs. Van Hopper.”

“What have you been doing here?”

“Just washing things out as best as I can, I suppose.”

“Why in heaven's name don’t you send your things down the chute to the laundry?”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing. No one told me,” Morse said.

“Well,” Max said. “That’s Mrs. Danvers’ department. Why you didn’t ask her, I can’t imagine.”

Morse shrugged. “I didn’t like to bother her, I suppose.”

“ _Bother_ her?” he said. “It’s her _job_ to be bothered with household matters. It seems sometimes as if you're almost afraid of the woman." Max shook his head. "We'll just have to see about Strange getting you an advance, in the meanwhile. Get you fitted out properly for the job."

Max raised his eyebrows, smiling softly as he buttered his roll.  "Although it seems as if you've had plenty of money over the years for opera records." 

He huffed a laugh and turned his attention to his dinner.

 

“Sorry,” Morse sighed.

"Sorry for what?" Max asked.

“I’m afraid I didn’t make much of an impression, then.”

“On whom?” Max asked.

“On Lady Crowan.”

“Lady Crowan is a damned nuisance,” Max said, as if that ended the matter.

 

So was it not such a transgression, after all, the state of his suit? It was so difficult to tell, sometimes, when Max was annoyed or when he was simply jesting. 

But, for the moment, Max seemed contended enough, stirring milk into his tea. 

 

Morse began to wonder if they might still go into the library after dinner, if Max had really meant what he had said--that they might forget what had happened last night in front of the fire, that their friendship might go on just as it had before.

 

“So,” Max said, “Anything else of note?”

 

There were so many things that Morse could have said: I ran into Samuel last night, lurking around the boathouse. Do you _really_ want to let it go to ruin? One day you might be ready to go back, to remember, and you will be sad to see what’s become of it.

And Inspector Thursday came by, and I went with him to the station. It’s such an interesting place; there’s a corkboard on which they have all the case notes. I think I may have recognized a pattern in the victims’ names. Thursday seemed to think there was some credence to my theory, anyway. Maybe I should consider going into the police? And then, you wouldn’t be my employer, you wouldn’t have to feel . . .

And I talked to Strange and I know, now, what happened, and I’m sorry. And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but if you did, you could talk to me. You could always talk to me. . . .

 

There were so many, so many things he might have said.

 

But instead, he simply looked down at his plate and said, “No. Not really.”

 

He twirled his fork about in his potatoes, spinning out dinner, still wondering whether or not Max would sit with him in the library, as if nothing had changed between them.

 

“I think I’ll head off to my study. I have a few letters I want to write before I turn in,” Max said.  

“All right,” Morse said.

“One of the pianos has been moved into the Great Hall. You should go and try it out, see if the tuner has done the thing properly, make certain I've gotten my money's worth.”

 

“Oh,” Morse said. “All right.” 

Morse laid his fork down and got up at once from the table. 

 

He went into the Great Hall, and there it was, a grand piano, just as Max had said, given a place of prominence in the high-ceilinged room.

Morse sat down at the bench, and an odd lump seemed to lodge itself somewhere in his throat. It didn’t make any sense. It was something that, at any other time, would have made him wildly happy—a well-tuned piano and oceans of solitude in which to play it.

His fingers struck the keys, rippling into one series of notes and then another, until he gathered speed and the music was spinning in the room around him.

 

But there was something new in his music, something he didn’t quite know how to name. Something lost, something hopeful and despairing both at the same time.

Something utterly abandoned.

It was as if he put into the notes all of the words that he could never say.

 

He stopped, then, his fingers resting perfectly still on the keys, and turned.

Suddenly, he had felt the presence of someone behind him, as if someone was watching him.

 

Not an ominous presence, as he had felt when he crossed the darkened lawns late last night and had fancied he had seen a pale hand at the west wing window.

 

It was an altogether different feeling he had, a warmth down the back of his neck, a blush across his face, a feeling he didn’t know how to name.  

He grasped one hand in the other and held them still in his lap.

Then, he reached up and closed the lid over the keys.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, is Morse repressed.  
> You know what that means....
> 
> Thank you to IamLittleLamb for your words of encouragement! :0)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the angst begin!

 

August, 1939

(Two months later....)

 

Morse stopped at the top of the hill and looked back, reveling in the feel of the warm summer wind in his face.

 

His stride was longer than Max's, but, typically when they walked together, Morse lagged behind, never quite able to match Max's brisk and efficient pace.

Today, however, on an unexpected walking tour around the circular stone ruins of Restormel Castle, Morse was unable to curb his enthusiasm; there were times he was tempted to break into a run just for the sheer thrill of it.

So, for once, he had gotten too far ahead. And so he stopped at the crest of the grassy hill and turned around, waiting for Max to catch up. 

 

 

Over the past few weeks, Morse had settled into his new life at Manderly. He often accompanied Strange on his morning rounds, and he felt that now he was almost a help to him. Strange seemed to value his suggestions, at any rate.

 

The plans for the ball were coming along swimmingly; so much so, that Morse felt confident enough to deviate from that white and yellow binder—especially when it came to choosing the music. He had already had a number of string quintets come up to the house to audition, to help him in his decision.

 

Even Mrs. Danvers had finally learned to accept him; Morse suspected that much of her charge in attitude toward him had to do with the fact that he had never told Max about that visit from her odd guest, Mr. Jakes. In her eyes, he had proved his solidarity with the rest of the staff.

 

He had not heard at all from Inspector Thursday. At first, it had worried him—it was as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was the silence just another part of the killer’s game, a mere intermission before the final act?

But then, as the weeks passed and no further murders were reported in the papers, Morse began to believe that perhaps Inspector Thursday had caught his man—that the silence might be the result of legal matters involving a pending trial.

 

His relationship with Max, over the course of the summer, had become businesslike and cordial, as the awkwardness of that night in the library slipped off into the past. It was just as Morse had thought: time heals all things. 

 

Sometimes, though, Morse felt himself dwelling on that night, at chance moments—remembering the feel of Max’s kisses at the hollow of his throat or of his hands on his waist, or ....

But he had learned to damper down his feelings; he did not want to risk losing Max altogether. He had learned to be content with sitting with him at dinner, walking with him about the grounds, reporting in to him about matters concerning the estate.

After all, what else could he reasonably hope for?

It was enough. It had to be enough.

 

In the evenings, he played the piano in the Great Hall, putting all the remnants of the broken bits of sorrow and loss into his music, rather than ever to let it show on his face.

 

And so this—Morse had no longer expected, or even dreamed, of a day like this. It had come about out of the blue: a landowner from a neighboring estate had called about a grove of trees that bordered between his own lands and Manderly’s, and, in the course of the conversation, asked Morse what he thought of Cornwall.

It soon became clear that Morse knew nothing about it, outside of Manderly.

“DeBryn, you really ought to make certain that your land agents are better acquainted with the county,” he had said. 

 

It was at dinner that night that Max suggested this jaunt to Restormel Castle, and a more perfectly beautiful and blue and light and breezy summer day Morse could not imagine.

 

It wasn’t until the sun has climbed far overhead that they stopped to delve into the hamper they had brought, packed with their lunch. Morse had never had much appetite—he had learned, over the years, not to take too much, not to take more than his fair share. But the walk and the bright, soft air left him ravenous, and he polished off his sandwich in just a few bites.

The breeze kicked up, sending the white clouds rolling like small boats across the late summer blue sky, just as they had at Monte, and so he lay down to watch them, stretching his arms out over his head.

 

“The out-of-doors suits you. Or maybe you are simply suited to it,” Max said.

Morse shrugged one thin shoulder. He  _did_ feel happier, more certain of himself, off with Strange, then he did fussing about silverware or some other detail pertaining to the upcoming ball.

 

Max considered the sky, as if to uncover what Morse found so captivating, and then he lay down and stretched out on the blanket beside him. As he did, the edge of his hand brushed the edge of Morse’s.

Morse’s fingers twitched under his touch, and he almost moved his hand away, but then he changed his mind. If he moved his hand, it might suggest that he thought something of it. It would be more natural simply to leave it as it was.

 

“How did you come to know so much about it? Land management? I wouldn’t have thought your previous position would have given you much experience on that score,” Max asked.

 

Morse kept his eyes trained on the clouds above.

 

“I’m from Lincolnshire. Forty-five percent of the economy revolves around agriculture, there, you know,” Morse said.

“A fact I could have read in any almanac,” Max replied, dryly. “And one that tells me absolutely nothing.”

 

Morse scowled. He thought if he remained silent, the question might fall away, but he could feel it somehow, that sense of expectation.

 

“They . . . . We had a lot of gardens,” Morse said, at last. “And a small orchard. At the boys’ home where I grew up. The idea was that we would grow some of our own food, to save money, since it was a charitable instiution.”

  “I thought you said you had family, of sorts,” Max said.

 

And Morse knew which conversation Max was alluding to.

 

_“Don’t you have any family?”_

_“No. Not really.”_

_“Well? Which is it? No or not really?”_

_“Not really,” Morse had said._

 

 

“I did,” Morse said. “I do. Well, a father and stepmother. My parents divorced when I was quite young. And then my mother . . . my mother died when I was twelve. So I went to live with my father and Gwen. But they  . . . They didn’t want me. They . . . they just didn’t like me much.”

A sharp line formed on Max’s smooth brow. “And so they sent you to, what? An orphanage?”

“Not all of the boys there were orphans. There were others who were there because their families couldn’t afford to keep them.”

“Was that the case with your father, then?” Max asked.

“No. Not really. I was just ...  more trouble than I was worth, I suppose. I suspect I was very difficult.”

Max snorted at that, in disbelief.

 

But it was true. It must have been. He must have done _something_. There must have been some _reason_ why they didn’t want him.

 

“No,” Morse said. “I was. You don’t understand.”

“What could you have done at the age of twelve to warrant sending you away?”

“I ... I used to sing all of the time,” Morse said. “It drove my stepmother mad. She told me and told me to stop, but I would always forget.”

“But you sing very well. And, even if you didn’t, that would hardly be a reason to send a child packing. It sounds to me as if they had no plausible excuse at all. What could there be, to do such a thing?”

 

Morse frowned. 

And perhaps Max was right: had he been _so_ annoying, really? All he had wanted was just some scrap of beauty in a gray and grim world...

How to explain? What had he done wrong? The simple explanation was that there was something fundamentally flawed in him.

 

“There was just, something _wrong_ with me, I suppose. I was just a difficult child. Even when I was young, and with my mother at the meeting house . . . I . . .” 

Morse stopped short, then, and let the sentence drift away.

“You what?” Max asked.

“Well. There was another boy there. He was called Deliverance. His family used to sit on the bench in front of us. I can remember, so many times, sitting beside my mother—the meeting house so still, the sun casting through the window with a warm, white glow. And I was _supposed_ to be quieting my thoughts, I was _supposed_ to be searching for the inner light, but. . . .”

“But what?”

“But all I could do was stare at the back of his head and think, ‘Thank God my name is not Deliverance.’" 

 

Max burst out laughing. It wasn’t his typical laugh, but something even more unbridled, like the soft brush of the summer wind around them. Morse had never heard him make such a sound.

Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled to hear it, but, in this case, it stung to be the cause of it, especially right as he was unburdening himself, disclosing one of his deepest misgivings about himself. 

 

Morse sat up. “It’s nothing to laugh at. Schadenfreude already at the age of nine?”

“ _Schadenfreude_?” Max said, incredulously. “I’m sorry. You’ll forgive me if that little confession isn’t the most terrible thing I ever heard.”

“What would you call, it then?” Morse asked.

 “I'd call it a case of a nine-year-old boy sorry to be saddled with a name like Endeavour. And then I might call your father something else altogether.”

 

Max tilted his head, considering him through his heavy-framed glasses. “Why don’t you use it? Your name?" 

“I told you," Morse said, mullishly. "I don’t want people...”

“... to laugh at her,” Max completed, quietly.

Morse nodded.

 “It’s not a bad name, you know, whatever you might seem to think," Max said. "It suits you. It captures that glowing look you have once you’ve come to the top of a hill.”

Morse watched him warily, waiting for the pun, the joke. For Max to start laughing.

Instead, Max smiled at him—it was a wan smile, but there nonetheless, and then he began packing up their hamper.

Morse felt a surge of gratitude toward him for letting it go at that, for letting his name rest in peace.

 ********

At dinner, the headiness of the day still lingered, making the long, formal table somehow seem as if it were a table for two.

“How are plans for the ball coming along?” Max asked.

“Fine,” Morse said. “I think I have the music sorted out at last.”

Max laughed a bit of that, knowingly. “That _would_ be your priority,” he said. He began to slice into his cutlet and asked, “Have you given any thought as to what you were planning to wear?”

“Wear?” Morse asked. “But . . . I’m not _going_ , am I?”

“Of course you’re going,” Max said. “You are part of the executive staff.”

“But . . . it’s a fancy dress ball,” Morse protested.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Morse said. “Don’t I need some sort of costume?”

“That is the idea, yes.”

”Well,” Morse sputtered, uncertain. “What are _you_ going as?”

“Oh,” Max said, airily. “I never dress up. It’s the host’s prerogative not to make a fool of himself.”

Morse let out a low, indignant cry. “Well, that’s not quite fair, is it?”

“Do be sporting, Morse. I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Max said. “Why don’t you get a hat with a feather in it, and you can go as Peter Pan, hmmmm?”

 

Morse looked at him, singularly unimpressed, while Max laughed airily.

 

Then, a more worrying thought crossed his mind.

“What’s the matter?” Max asked, watching his face shrewdly.

”I don’t know how to dance,” Morse said. “What will I do, going to a society ball?”

”That’s not your most pressing problem,” Max said.

”It isn’t?” Morse asked.

”I’d say your most pressing problem would be learning your sleeve from your napkin.”

Morse scowled. Max had caught him out, a few times, wiping his mouth on his sleeve—he never so much as glanced at his napkin anymore. 

“What is it?” Max asked.

”Nothing,” Morse said.

He would never tell Max about that. It would be cruel, to tell him someone was playing tricks using Rebecca’s old things.

 Max set down his fork. “Well,” he said. “There’s only one thing for it.”

He moved his chair back from the table. “Come on, then,” Max said crisply. “Let’s go into the library.”

******

Max set the needle on the turntable. 

“This is ridiculous,” Morse said. “I’ll never learn all in one night.”

”Nonsense,” Max said. “There’s nothing to it. If you can count, you can dance. I’ll lead to begin, hmm?” 

Max held up his hand for Morse to take; Morse hesitated for a fraction of an instant and then soldered his palm against his. As soon as Max closed his fingers around his hand, Morse felt it— a sudden surge of warmth that went through his open palm and up his arm and into his chest.

Then Max put his other hand to his waist— Morse felt himself tremble slightly under the unfamiliar touch, but he forced himself to keep his face impassive.

And then, mercifully, it was all a matter of counting.

Max showed him the way to move his feet, to count his steps, giving him something steady, something objective, to concentrate on.

But all of the time, there was a part of Morse’s mind that had grown fuzzy and warm, that yearned to lean further into the the broad hand that rested at his waist.

The music swelled and Morse closed his eyes.

He had the hang of it now, stepping in smart circles in Max’s arms. He stopped counting and gave himself over to it, to the music and to the lightness that stole over him.

Then, suddenly, he came back to himself; he felt his face burn as if he knew, somehow, that Max had been watching his face, noting, no doubt, the abandoned expression there.

He opened his eyes to find Max looking at him, a bemused smile on his face.

Morse broke away and looked down, scrubbing up the curls at the back of his nape.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think I have the gist of it now.”

 **************

Morse was coming out into the Great Hall, looking through some letters, when he nearly ran into Mrs. Danvers, accompanied, strangely enough, by the sardonic Mr. Jakes. 

Jakes looked at him insolently, as if daring him to report to Max this latest visit.

Morse gave a tight smile in return. He didn't much like the man, but he didn't want to be the cause of trouble in the household, either, nor did he want to break his fragile truce with Mrs. Danvers. 

 

“Mr. Morse,” she said. “Mr. Strange gave me his order to mail up to London a week ago Wednesday, but I am given to understand that you haven't yet decided on what to wear to the fancy dress. Is that right?”

"Yes,” Morse said. "Sorry to be so late, but I . . . I hadn't realized I was going."

Mr. Jakes took a drag on his cigarette. "What do you know, then, Cinders? You shall go to the ball."

Morse scowled and ignored him.

"Of course, it's not my place to say," Mrs. Danvers said. "But you might consider some of the portraits along the gallery on the main stair. Anyone of them would make for a fine costume."

Morse raised his eyebrows in surprise; it wasn’t a bad idea. He knew that the paintings were some of Max’s favorite pieces in all of Manderly. They were all of them portraits of his ancestors, and some of the paintings had hung in their places of honor for centuries.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Danvers,”  he said. “I’ll take them into consideration.”

 

Mr. Jakes smirked and swept out towards the front door, Mrs. Danvers gliding along in his wake, doubtless to keep a watch out for Max.

 

Morse walked slowly up the stairs. It would be fitting, a costume taken from one of the portraits. Max treasured anything connected to the history of the place; it grounded him, Morse supposed, knowing that he was the end point of a long line of ancestors who had passed the torch, who had kept Manderly running.

With such a costume, Morse would, in effect, be bringing the old Manderly back to life. 

And anything here was bound to be more dignified than Peter Pan.

 

But then, Morse had his doubts. All of the clothing of centuries past seemed so complicated: eighteenth-century hose and powdered wigs and nineteenth-century frills and starched collars. So much fuss. None of it would suit him at all. 

 

Near the end of the gallery, however, was a portrait of a young man and woman standing amidst green fields, a grove of Rococo trees in the distance. The dark-haired girl was dressed simply in a ruffled white frock and was carrying a basket of white roses. The young man was dressed in a blue and green kilt and fly plaid, with one foot resting on a rock. His reddish hair was a trifle untamed, as if a breeze had kicked up.

That would certainly be easy to emulate; over the summer, Morse’s hair had taken on threads of copper through spending so much time in the sun. He wouldn’t have to do a thing.

It was simple—and with his lanky frame, he could pull off the Scottish regalia far better than all the fluff and frillery of the costumes of ages past.

He would look as if he had just stepped off of the windswept moors. It would be perfect.

 

And Max had thought that the out-of-doors suited him. That his name sounded like the glowing look he had when he came to the top of a hill.

 

 

He was standing in contemplation of the painting, when Mr. Bright came darting up the steps, moving much more quickly than his typical, dignified pace allowed.

“Inspector Thursday to see you, sir,” Mr. Bright said.

Morse felt his soaring heart sink. There could be only one explanation: the killer had not yet been caught—the trail had simply run cold.

And now it was no longer.

 

Thursday’s determined expression and the aggressive stance he held as he stood waiting in the foyer confirmed it.

“Can you come down with me, now, to the station?” Thursday asked.

Morse nodded tersely. He was almost afraid to ask. He suspected he would find out what had happened soon enough.

 

At the station, the buzzing air he had noticed on his last visit had been replaced by a dour silence. A group of constables gathered around a desk in quiet conversation, their hands in their pockets, looking defeated.

 

Thursday ushered Morse over. “Here,” he said, offering him a set of papers. “What do you make of this?”

Morse knew what they were immediately. “It’s a score. Snegurochka,” he said.

There were letters and numbers scrawled across the first page, and Morse read them aloud, “OP 3 SICP 0.”

Morse turned to Thursday. “Opera Phantom 3, St. Ives City Police, 0?” he conjectured. 

Thursday’s darkened face flickered with cold anger. “A score, then. A score on a score. It’s just as I thought. It’s just a game to this bastard. And now he’s telling us he’s ready for another round.”

 

Just then, a constable called over from another desk.

“Call just in, sir. A woman’s reported her daughter missing. Debbie Snow.”

 

“Debbie,” Morse mused. “Begins with a D.”

 

“Six years old. Taken from the street outside her house. Only her shoe left behind on the sidewalk. Description’s been circulated to all cars and foot patrols,” the constable added.

“Constable,” Thursday nodded.

 

“It’s him,” Morse said. “He’s back.”

“We can’t say that yet. Just because her name begins with a D....” Thursday began.

“There’s more than that, sir,” Morse countered. “The score. It’s Snegurochka. By Rimsky-Koroskov. Snegurochka is Russian for Snow Maiden.”

“Snow Maiden,” Thursday said. “Debbie Snow.”

Then, he looked at Morse, sharply. “Somebody dies, presumably? In the opera?”

Morse nodded. “The Snow Maiden herself. She melts. At dawn. As the sun rises.”

 

Thursday grimaced. He understood, then, what Morse meant: they would be racing the clock.

But where to begin?

 

It was then that another constable came into the station. “Uniform found this,” he said. “Something stuffed, in the heel of Debbie Snow’s shoe.”

The constable held out the piece of paper to Inspector Thursday, who unfolded it and held it up so that Morse, standing at his side, could also afford a look.

The scrap of paper was scrawled with three words:

 

STORMS TREE LACE

 

“What the hell does that mean?” Thursday asked.

“Another reference to snow, perhaps? As in snow on the branches of trees, left by a storm? Snowflakes might be said to look like scraps of lace,” Morse suggested.

“How would snow be a helpful clue? It’s the end of the summer,” Thursday snapped.

“It must mean something. That scorecard. He’s setting us a test,” Morse said.

“What sort of a test?” Thursday asked.

“Solve the puzzle, save the child.”

Thursday regarded him grimly. “Think you can crack it?” he asked.

“I can try,” Morse said.

 ********

Morse sat at Thursday’s desk, clicking a pen in rhythm to his thoughts.

There hadn’t been any storms of late. . . .

He cast about on Thursday’s desk, looking through the evidence gathered there. In light of the circumstances, Inspector Thursday had been granted permission from his chief superintendent, granting Morse access.

There were photographs of a crime scene in a train car and of a handkerchief embroidered with the letter D. There was his own Othello album. And Grace Madison’s appointment book, in which she had scheduled an appointment with a journalist called . . . Ben Nimmo.

 

What’s this? Had the killer somehow convinced Grace Madison that he was some sort of journalist, then?

In the photographs taken at Miss Madison’s house, the table was set for two. Had her killer tricked her into having him over, inviting him in to tea?

 

The name in the book told Morse two things: that the killer must be adept at passing himself off as someone else, and that he was deliberately leaving a trail.

 

A trail.

STORMS TREE LACE must be some sort of trail.

A trail to Debbie Snow.

If only they could follow it before it was too late.

 

What sort of tree, what sort of lace could the murderer mean?

 

Morse rifled through more of the papers in the folder on Thursday’s desk, and to his surprise, found his own name, the name he so rarely used, looking back at him.

Morse, Endeavour.

It was on a list of the staff at Manderly—Morse was surprised to see just how many people there were working in the kitchens or out on the grounds whom he did not even know. There were so many unfamiliar names on the list, that the familiar ones popped out at him.

Bright, Reginald, the butler. He hadn’t known that Reginald was his first name. Danvers, Helen. Odd that she should share the name with the woman whose face launched a thousand ships. Fancy, George, the first footman. Losingfer, Samuel, the oddjobs man.

Seeing the list made Morse think of the odd happenings at Manderly. He remembered that strange phone call and the disturbing things that the man speaking had said.

 

“ _I_ _have_ _eyes_ _everywhere_. _I_ _even_ _have_ _an_ _eye_ _that’s_ _not_ _really_ _mine_. _If_ _you_ _pluck_ _my_ _eye_ _out_ , _you_ _might_ _begin_ _to_ _see_ _me,_ _in_ _fact_.”

 

 _Pluck_ _out_ _the_ _i_? Morse had wondered.

 

Perhaps Morse had been taking these words too literally—perhaps it was a different sort of puzzle, a word puzzle.

He tore a piece of paper from Thursday’s notebook and wrote the letters at the top of the page.

STORMS TREE LACE

It didn’t take him long to unscramble them. It was a place he had visited just the day before.

RESTORMEL CASTLE

********

Thursday and Morse strode together in the darkness, followed by three constables, up the last surge of a hill, toward the stone circle of the ruins. They went through an archway, and, there, in the grassy center of the onetime castle, was a small casket.

They broke into a run.

“Get that open,” Thursday snapped.

They slid the lid open, and inside, was a little girl, her eyes wide, looking terrified. Morse stood for a moment, stunned, but Thursday scooped her right up, with a skill and assurance that led Morse to think at once that, although he had never spoken of his family, Inspector Thursday must be a father.

The little girl threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

‘It’s all right, now, love,” Inspector Thursday said, his typically intimidating voice softened to a low and gentle rumble. “We’ll get you home to your mummy, yeah?”

The little girl nodded.

 

Morse should have been relieved, but, instead, he was troubled.

 

Although the casket was placed where it would be struck through an archway in the walls by the morning sun, Debbie Snow was a little girl, not a snow maiden. The morning sun would not actually harm her. And, what’s more, there were air holes in the casket.

 

Debbie Snow was never in any real danger.

 

He wasn’t playing by the rules. This was just a test run perhaps, for what was to come.

And was it a coincidence that the girl should be found here, where he and Max had walked just the day before? Morse looked over his shoulder, peering into the darkness.

 

Had someone been watching him then? Was someone watching him now?

 

Down on the main road, a car pulled up and a couple darted out of it, throwing both doors open. Thursday strode down the hill with the child to meet them. Morse followed, trying to look more self-assured than he felt.

 

*********

Morse looked in the mirror, trying to look more self-assured than he felt.

It was difficult to believe that life at Manderly carried on, that they were going ahead with this fancy dress ball, despite the cloud of fear that had seemed to settle over Cornwall over the past two weeks, since the kidnapping of Debbie Snow, since the Opera Phantom, as he was now called, had been seized upon by the press.

But that was how the world worked, Morse was coming to learn. Things might happen—either marvelous or terrifying—but such extremes were best swept under the carpet if one was to get about one’s daily life.

Or perhaps it was a feeling endemic to Manderly itself—the rolling and wooded estate by the sea seemed somehow as a kingdom apart, untouched by the workaday world outside its grounds.

 

Morse turned and considered himself from the side. Amazingly, he looked all right. Perhaps even better than all right.

The kilt and fly plaid were spare and austere, and actually suited him. He was long and lanky enough to pull the thing off—it was a much better choice for his frame than some elaborate eighteenth-century get-up would have been.

To top it all off, he didn’t have to worry at all about his hair. A long summer spent touring the land with Strange had brought out all the copper tones in his unruly waves, and leaving it completely alone gave him to look as if he had just stepped off of the moors, made him a doppelganger for the man in the gallery painting, some long-dead ancestor of Max’s.

 

And, Max said being out-of-doors suited him. That his name was like the glowing look he had when he came to the top of a hill.

 

Morse straightened the pin at his shoulder and hurried to leave. He was meeting Strange downstairs to go over a few things before the guests began to arrive.

At the top of the stairs, he saw them, gathered in the Great Hall: Max, true to his word, had remained staunchly in a well-cut suit. Strange was dressed in some sort of medieval garb; he looked vaguely as Morse imagined Little John might. Max’s sister, Dorothea, had also arrived early, as she was staying overnight at the house. She was dressed as a flapper from the last decade; it suited her.

No one looked ridiculous at all, as Morse had feared. He began to wonder if the party might actually be a bit of fun. There would be good music—he had made certain of that, and it was possible he’d spend much of the night at Max’s elbow, helping him as host, making sure all ran smoothly behind the scenes.

 

“Hello,” Morse said, starting down the stairs.

 

At his greeting, the three faces turned to him. And then froze.

 

Strange and Dorothea’s eyes opened wide, as if they were horrified, but Max. . . his face betrayed no emotion at all.

It was just like that poem of Hardy’s.

There was no feeling in his face that had strength enough to die.

 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Max said.

There was a coldness and a fierceness Morse had never heard there before.

“It’s . . .” Morse began uncertainly . . . “It’s the painting in the gallery.”

Max closed his eyes and put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache coming on.

“Go upstairs and change. Just put anything else on. It doesn’t matter what,” he said.

“But I don’t _have_ anything else,” Morse protested.

”Just go, just go, for God’s sake, before someone sees you!”

But Morse, confused, remained where he was.

“Did you not hear me?” Max roared. “Go! Why must you make everything such a goddamned endeavour?”

Morse felt as if he had gone numb. For one awful moment, he couldn’t move.

Then, he spun on the spot and tore up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s over the top gothic melodrama from here on out! :D
> 
> Who would have known about the kilt, though? It sure did do it for Bixby....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure how to tag this. This book is more disturbing than I fully appreciated before I started this AU. Jeepers!
> 
> Basically, I feel Morse has shown pretty poor judgment overall by staying at this place!
> 
> (Also, as an aside note: the end starts tilting to an E rating... it should be clear what way the scene is going! :D)

Morse ran up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. He was done with it. Finished with it. None of this had certainly been  _his_  idea. He had been far happier traipsing through sheep paddocks and orchards with Strange than he was organizing this ludicrous party.

It was humiliating beyond belief that Max would treat him so, like a naughty child, when he had tried so hard to prove his worth at the estate. And, of course, to top all, Max  _would_  behave so in front of Strange and his sister, the only two people he had met thus far who seemed to have a modicum of respect for him.

 

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed. He’d be damned if he’d go back down there.  

He wiped at his face, realizing he had given over to tears and hating himself for it. He would be twenty by the start of the fall. It was far past time for him to put away such childishness.

What he really ought to do is pack his things and go. But he didn’t quite want to do that, either.

 

Not because he didn’t want to leave Max....it wasn’t that.... it was...

Well, where else would he go, without even a reference?

 

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Morse wiped at his face again, angrily, and rose to answer it.

It was Max’s sister, Dorothea, looking thoroughly nonplussed by the drama that had just unfolded.

“It’s the painting,” Morse said, at once. “I was just supposed to be that man in the painting.”

“I know,” she said, waving down his protests. "I know." 

“Well, then. Do you know _why_ Max should suddenly hate it so? That painting? All he can ever talk about is Manderly, Manderly and its illustrious past." 

 

Dorothea sighed and came into the room, sitting down on his bed and patting the bedspread, gesturing for Morse to sit down beside her. He did so, mulishly, collapsing hard onto the mattress, as if to register his impatience with the whole affair.

 

“You have to understand. It was just a bit of a shock. It’s all a frightful coincidence, I’m sure, but. . . .,” she took a deep breath. “The thing of it is, Rebecca dressed as the woman in that painting at the last fancy dress ball. When I first saw you . . . it was as if . . . .” She shook her head and let the sentence fall away.

 

As if  _what?_   Morse wanted to ask. As if they were, as that prank caller had suggested, some sort of matched set?

As if he was offering himself as a replacement?

Morse sat scowling, but said nothing.

 

Dorothea rose at once and went over to his wardrobe. “What else do you have?” she asked, going through his things. It didn’t take long; he still didn’t have all that much.

“Here,” she said, pulling out his blue suit. “What’s wrong with this blue? You can say you are a forget-me-not, how’s that?”

“That is absolutely the most ludicrous thing I ever heard,” Morse said.

“Well, put on something, for God’s sakes,” Dorothea snapped. “The first guests are arriving as we speak.”

“I’m not going,” Morse said. “I’m not going down there.”

Dorothea clucked at him brusquely. “Don’t be so silly. Of course, you are going downstairs. You organized the thing, Morse.”

“No,” Morse said, quietly. “I won’t."

 

Just then, there was another knock on the door, and Dorothea went to answer it. It was Strange. Morse promptly turned his face away, so that he could not see his blotched face, how close he was to tears.

“Well?” Strange asked.

“He says he won’t come down,” Dorothea hissed.

“Blimey,” Strange said. “How’s that going to look?”

 

It hit him like a punch straight to the gut.

How’s that going to _look_?

Because....

Because how  _did_  it look, Max bringing home an unskilled and inexperienced nineteen-year-old he had met in the south of France to work as an assistant agent?

And all the comments that had flown over his head, and all of the sidelong looks that he had not understood, turned and attacked, like birds of prey.

His thoughts flew back and back, all the way back to Mrs. Van Hopper, and how she had said the words  _assistant_   _agent_  as if they had quotation marks around them, as if he was really going to Manderly for some other purpose.

 

_Tell me, my dear, have you been doing anything you shouldn’t?_

 

That’s why Dorothea and Lady Crowan had looked so surprised to see him. Why Dorothea looked slightly relieved, Lady Crowan slightly heartened. What had they been expecting to find, exactly?

 

 “What are we going to say if he won’t come down?” Dorothea whispered through the crack in the door. 

 

That was it, then. They were worried about how it would _look_.

Of course, he should go downstairs. So all of the guests—whose opinion Max never seemed to give a damn about anyway—could see that he was not what they thought he was: that he was a gawky and awkward, thoroughly English nineteen-year-old, with a sunburnt face dusted in freckles, who used words like “ripping” and who scarcely bothered to run a comb through his hair.

Of course, they had to see he wasn’t one of those languid boys he had seen from cab windows in Paris, with fashionable clothes and heavy eyes.

Of course, they had to see that he truly was a member of staff—briskly and crisply managing the party, not up in his room pouting because his clothes didn’t suit him, or because he’d had a lover’s quarrel with Max.

 

Morse sat, his hands clenched in his lap, and huffed a rueful laugh. 

Because the irony was this: he may look the part of the complete innocent, wide eyed and clumsy and ruddy-cheeked, but he was not. . . No, he was far from it. He was far more fallen than any of those boys he had seen from behind cab windows, who made it clear they had a price.

Because as soon as Max had pulled him down from off of that rock, he had wanted his hands on him. Not for money. But from sheer desire.

 

He put his face in his hands and groaned. It was all hell. What a fool he was to not have seen it.

 

Dorothea whispered something to Strange, something he couldn't catch. Then she closed the door and turned to him at once. “Now, now, that’s not the way. Come on, then,” she said, bracingly.

 

What did Miss DeBryn care? She, who seemed so hell-bent on defying convention? 

But this, if this was what everyone seemed to _think_ that it was—it didn’t just flaunt convention, did it? It flaunted the law.

She was his sister. As much as she bickered with Max, she loved him, too—she would not want him to be the subject of ugly gossip, especially with such a price to pay.

 

But why should it matter?

What had Max said? That some would call it an abomination? How strange, how twisted it was, that his loving Max might be termed so, that people should bother themselves so about it, just as a madman was running amuck in the county.

“I don’t understand this place,” Morse said. “I don’t understand why we’re having this party at all. We’ve had three murders and a kidnapping over the past few months, and, apart from a few lurid headlines, no one much seems to care. All anyone had been able to talk about is the ball.”

Dorothea frowned. “Murders?” she asked at once.

Morse realized then that Dorothea, living as she did in Oxford, may not have heard the news of what had been happening in Cornwall.

“Yes,” Morse said vehemently. “A deranged lunatic has killed three people, all after the style of a death from an opera. And leaving behind musical scores and handkerchiefs and all sorts."

Dorothea's face was suddenly grim with concentration, as if she was lost in thought. 

"What?" Morse asked at once. "What is it?" 

“It's nothing," she said. "It's just. There was something similar that happened years and years ago, here at Manderly. When I was just a girl.”

"What?" Morse asked.

"The head housekeeper fell in love with the under butler. The woman had been married before and had a fifteen-year-old son. Mason Gull. He was . . . jealous . . . jealous that he found he had to share his mother's affections with someone else. One day, while we were out visiting my grandmother, we came home to find two constables standing post at the door. In our absence, while many of the servants had gone into town and the house was fairly quiet, Mason killed his mother and the under butler with an axe." 

Morse inhaled sharply. 

"He claimed he had been running an errand for the house in Edgecombe, Gull. But the police found that he had kept the blood-stained sheets of music, the ones his mother had been playing when she was killed, as some sort of souvenir. There was a tremendous trial. Our father had to testify.”

"What happened to him? Gull?”

"Locked away, in an institution. Still there, I suppose. Why?”

"Nothing," Morse said, but all the while he was thinking of that music score, the one found with Ben Nimmo.

 

Then another thought struck Morse.

"Max never said anything about it. Why?" 

“No,” she said. “I was about eight when it happened. Just old enough to start concerning myself with what the grownups were whispering about. Max would have been only three or four. He wouldn’t remember.”

She went over again to his wardrobe. "Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you changed. Yes? You worked to put this thing together. Since you’ve suffered through the dullness of the planning, you might as well see the fruits of your labors. Think of Max, hmmm? It will be awfully awkward for him, if you don’t come down. I’m sure he’s feels terrible about it all." 

"I am thinking of Max," Morse said, his voice low. "I'm thinking of Max all the time."

 

And he wanted to call the words back. Because they could be taken the wrong way.

Because they could be taken the way he meant them.

 

Which, strangely enough, was one in the same thing.

 

To his surprise, she looked at him a little sadly. “I know," she said. "I know. I think that’s why I liked you as soon as I saw you."

Morse turned to her and furrowed his brow. She smiled and patted the side of his face.

********

Somehow, he managed it. Somehow, he managed, like a sleep walker, to get through the whole wretched party. 

A dance floor had been put into the Great Hall, and the couples whirled about in circles, to the point that Morse recognized them by sight, as they passed his dulled gaze again and again and again.

Everything ran so smoothly that he didn't have much to do. Morse found himself wishing for some glitch, some crisis, that might give him a task, to make the time pass more quickly, to take him behind the scenes, away from Max. 

Because Max didn’t even look at him the entire time. Even when he stood with him and Strange, bidding the guests goodnight, he kept his face turned stonily ahead.

Morse felt like a pale shadow of himself, like a ghost, standing with the rank and file of Manderly, shaking hands and replying mechanically to all of the guests’ delightful inanities. 

 

"Thanks ever so much, I can't say how much we enjoyed ourselves." 

"I'm so glad." 

"I understand we have you to thank for putting this little to-do together, old boy. Smashing job. We had quite the time.”

“I’m so glad.”

 

Was he capable of saying anything else? He was numbed to it all, he was fading.

He was finally a part of Manderly.

 

*******

As soon as he could get away, he went back to the wide staircase, desiring nothing so much as to lock himself into his room and be alone for a while, so that he could work out what to do.

At the top of the landing, he saw it, a black shadow gliding off toward the west wing.

 

Mrs. Danvers.

 

It was she who had recommended that he look at the paintings in the gallery for ideas for his costume. She knew very well what he might choose. She had done the thing on purpose.

A spark of anger flared in his beatless heart, and he followed after her. 

 

The west wing was dark, cast in shadow, silent and still. Then he saw it again—just ahead, one flash of black in the gray—Mrs. Danver’s skirt as she slid into the room at the end of the long hall.

Morse followed at a fast clip. He felt like the only live thing in the world of the dead. As if he had stumbled unwittingly into the underworld.  

 

He went to the end of the hall and tore the door open. Inside, was a room that rivaled a cathedral, with high ceilings and tall windows, framed by heavy curtains, overlooking the stormdark sea. White scrollwork formed patterns on taupe-gold walls, turned silver in the darkness.

In the center of the room, was a four-poster bed, so high you would need a step to get into it, piled high with gold silk pillows.

In the center of the room, like a priestess in her shrine, stood the black-clad Mrs. Danvers, a look of triumph lighting up her white death-mask of a face.

 

“You,” Morse said. “You knew she wore the dress in that painting last year. And you deliberately suggested that I go and look in the gallery. Why? What have I ever done that you should hate me so?” 

The woman lifted her chin, her dark eyes in her tight, pale face blown to black. “You tried to take her place.”

 

Morse faltered. Because it wasn’t true.

But it was true, too.

 

 “You know it to be true,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. “But you can’t win, can you? Her presence is still here, it’s still very much real, it breathes in every part of the house.”

She cocked her head, then, and her eyes grew strangely unfocused, as if she was listening for her dead mistress, even here, even now, as if she was seeing into some other world.  “Sometimes,” she said, “when I’m in the Great Hall, I fancy I hear her right behind me. That quick light, step.”

Then she smiled, madly, and it was the most gruesome expression that Morse had ever seen light a human face.

“Oh, no,” she said. “My lady is not gone from Manderly. She’s more real than you are. It’s you who is the ghost.”

 

And the woman was mad, clearly, but didn’t Morse sometimes have the feeling that someone was there, that someone was watching?  Someone who moved about the house, unseen, changing the napkin on his plate or the record on his turntable?

She looked at him, then, her eyes two pools in the darkness, two pools of dark he might drown in.  “Do you think the dead come back and watch the living? I’ve often wondered if she comes back to watch you and Mr. DeBryn together. If she sees you and Mr. DeBryn in the library.”

Morse felt a cold wash of blood flow through him. Did she know . . . ? Had she seen . . .?  Had the crack he had heard, that long ago night... had that  _not_  been a charred log falling in the fire? 

 

“What were you thinking? That he might love you?” she laughed then, long and low. “How could you think to take her place, you poor unnatural thing? Don’t you hear him, at night? It’s just like the old days, right after she died, pacing and pacing up and down, up and down, thinking of her, suffering torments because he’s lost her. He doesn’t want you here. He wants to be alone again with her.”

 

Morse’s thoughts were flying like crying black ravens in the dead of January trees. Because she was right—even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that it was against nature to love Max, it was against the law. And Max cared so much about his reputation. Or, rather, the reputation of Manderly.

What could Morse ever give him?  Only a slow decent from gossip to degradation, shame and scandal.

 

“You thought you could sit where she sat, walk where she walked. That you could climb into his lap like the cheap strumpet you are and win him away from her. You poor, poor unwanted mistake of nature.  You can’t fight her. She’s too strong for you. She was beaten in the end, but it wasn’t a man, it wasn’t a woman. It was the sea!” she cried.

“Stop it. Stop it. Just stop it!” Morse cried.

She arched one thin black eyebrow, and said, with deadly calm, “That’s not what you said to Mr. DeBryn, is it now, Mr. Morse? Not when you were well on your way to getting him arrested for gross indecency.”

She folded her arms and tilted her head. “I wonder what Inspector Thursday would say if I told him of my concerns?What with you not yet twenty?”

 

And how had she known that, too?

 

“Just . . . Just stop it!” he cried. Morse lurched away from her and opened the window. He felt suddenly feverish, like he might be sick, he needed to clear his head. He unlatched the window and threw it open, allowing the wind to blow in, the cold sea air, salt and fresh and life, and he had to clear his head.

 

Because a word from her could doom Max, couldn’t it? Especially in light of what everyone had been thinking, what everyone seemed to see in him, all along.

 

“That’s a fine idea, Mr. Morse,” Mrs. Danvers crooned. “You’re overwrought, sir. The fresh air will do you good.”

And then, she was standing right behind him. He stiffened. In the distance, the sea was raging, as if a sudden storm was blowing up. On his face was the bright and cold sea wind, and, on his nape, her warm fugue of breath.

“Why don’t you go?” she whispered, with deadly certainty. “You have no reason to stay. He doesn’t want you. He wants to be alone with his memories.”

Just then, another strong gust of wind blew up, and he took it into his lungs, like a breath of life.

 

And death was behind him, all the ghosts that haunted the room of a dead woman. Morse felt as if he was a jumble, as if he was stretched thin, torn between two worlds.

 

“You have nothing to stay for,” Mrs. Danvers said. “You have nothing to live for, do you?”

And Morse’s heart jumped. Because it was true.

Where else did he have to go?

He had stumbled through life leaving only his shadow behind him. He had always been alone. Why should he expect the future to be any different from his past?

He had lived alone and he would always live alone.

And then he would die alone.

“Look down there,” she said, her voice as low and lolling as a lullaby. “It’s easy, isn’t it? It wouldn’t hurt.”

Below, just visible through the mist, was a stone courtyard. One leap. One leap and it would all be over.

“Go on. Go on,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It would be a kindness, wouldn’t it? You don’t want to make trouble for him, do you?”

 

And there would never be a place in the world for someone like him.

 

“Go on, don’t be afraid. Why don’t you? Why don’t you?”

 

And she was mad, and he wanted to tear off, to run out of this room of shadow.

 

And then, there was a light.

Bright emergency flares flew up over the bay, lighting up the night. Then there were shouts, and a scramble of voices.

“Ship on the rocks!” someone shouted. “Ship on the rocks! Everyone! Down to the beach!”

And then, down in the courtyard, there was Max, casting a greatcoat on over his evening suit.

And Morse’s heart was racing, bursting into life and light, just as the emergency flares sent sparks over the winedark sea.

“Max!” Morse shouted. “Max!”

He reeled back and looked at Mrs. Danvers, looked into the dead, dark eyes. And _she_ was mad, _she_ was the poor, unnatural thing, twisted with misplaced loyalty and . . . And he lurched away and ran, bolted out of the room and down the wide staircase, his heart pounding with his heavy footfalls.

******

Down on the beach, there was a turmoil of shouts and crashing waves, as rescuers endeavored to help the men off their sinking vessel. Morse did not see Max anywhere. 

He looked for him amidst the crowds in vain. Where had he gone?

Morse scrambled over another piling of rocks, the wind blowing wildly at his coat and through his hair, and then he threw himself down from the top in one leap, down into the sand. And here, on this beach, he saw at last a familiar figure.

“Strange!” Morse shouted. “Strange! Have you seen Max anywhere?”

“Not for a half an hour,” he said.

Strange’s friendly face was uncharacteristically thoughtful and grim.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“The diver that went down to inspect the hull of the ship discovered another boat. A sailboat,” Strange said.

“Is it .... Is it Rebecca’s boat?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Morse said, softly.

“It’s going to bring it all back again. And worse than before.”

“Why did they have to find it?” Morse said. “Why couldn’t they have left it at the bottom of the sea?”

Strange said nothing, then turned to look over the water. “Well,” he said. “I best go talk to the captain, see what happens next.” 

“All right,” Morse said, and he turned to climb up the next outcrop of rocks, to keep looking for Max.

 ******

Morse wandered along the shore, the sound of the waves crashing in the storm.  In the darkness, everyone looked the same—faces cast down, wrapped in Macintoshes that whipped in the wind. He couldn’t find Max anywhere.

Finally, Morse clambered over the rocks to the hidden cove, and saw that a light shone in the cottage window. At first, he almost thought it was a trick of the moon, but, of course, there was no moon that night, under the heaviness of rolling  clouds. It  _was_  a light, shining in the darkness.

He approached the door and opened it carefully. Max was sitting in there, in a chair, utterly expressionless, a lit cigarette in his hand.

“Max!” Morse exclaimed.

A dull flicker moved over his face, like the churning of the sea, and then his face fell back into a mask of stone.

Morse slowly walked into the cottage and closed the door behind him.

“Max?" he asked. "Have you . . . have you forgiven me?” 

“Forgiven you?” Max said. “What the devil have I got to forgive you for?”

“About the costume,” Morse said.

 

“Oh, yes,” Max said, after a long pause. “I was angry with you, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” Morse said.

Max still looked ahead, as though keeping some eerie vigil. Morse wished that Max would look at him, at least.

“Your sister . . . told me why. I didn’t . . . I really didn’t know.”

“Of course, you didn’t. How could you have?” Max said, sharply.

Morse frowned. If he knew all along that was the case, why did he blow up so at him? He was like a storm, Max, just like the one that raged tonight, one that blew up off the coast, out of nowhere, and then fell again into stony silence. For months, Morse had lived for those little breaks in the clouds, and for months, they had grown fewer and fewer between.

 

“Max, can’t you talk to me?” Morse said. “I know I’m young and inexperienced and gauche, and not much of a companion to you, but you could . . .. It’s like you said, isn’t it? That first night?  You could . . . you could use an ally here, couldn’t you?”  He tried to sound bracing, as if they were members of a cricket team.

 

“You love me very much, don’t you?” Max said.  

 

Morse startled with a sharp intake of breath and looked down. Because of course, he didn’t, such things were forbidden. If it were so, he would be cast off, just as Mrs. Danvers said, like a poor unnatural thing. 

 

“You don’t have to look away,” Max said.

 

Morse said nothing. Forbidden words in the cover of darkness were just as forbidden as they were up in the great house.

Max sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s no matter. It’s all over now. That _thing_ has happened. The thing that I’ve dreaded every moment of every day. Rebecca has won. She knew this would happen,” he said meditatively.

 

Morse shook his head. “What are you saying?” 

“The diver,” Max said. “He found another boat.”

“Yes, Strange told me. I’m so sorry. I suppose it will . . . remind you of everything, just terribly.”

Max snorted and held a hand to his forehead. “God,” he said. “As if I need reminding.”  

He flicked his cigarette and said, “The diver also made another discovery. He looked in the port window and found another body, lying on the floor of the cabin.”

Morse frowned in confusion. “She wasn’t sailing alone, then?  There was another body? And now you’ll have to identify it? Is that it, Max?”

“No. There was nobody with her.”

“How can that be?” Morse asked. “Strange said that . . .”  

“The body I identified, the body of the woman who was washed up at Edgecombe-- That wasn’t Rebecca. I knew it wasn’t, even when I made the identification. That was some other woman, unknown, unclaimed, belonging nowhere. It’s Rebecca’s body, lying on the bottom of that cabin.”

“How can you . . . how can you be so sure?” Morse said, uncertainly.

 

And, finally, Max looked up. Finally, Max looked at him.

 

“Because I put it there,” he said.  

 

Morse couldn’t tell if it was the waves crashing outside of the cottage, or if it was a noise crashing in his head, like a violent rush of understanding. It felt as if all of his senses were surging, intertwining into one, unavoidable point.

Had Max....?

No.

The idea very idea was impossible, like a triangle with four sides.

 

“There,” he said, with grim satisfaction. “Look. I’ve killed it. That lost, faraway look. And it will never come back again.”

 

Morse felt like his heart was racing. This was . . . It was just . . . not possible.

All of these secrets and shadows and lies, and Morse still couldn’t fight his way through the tangle of them, Morse still couldn’t understand.

 

“Why didn’t you. . .. Why didn’t you tell me?” he managed at last.

“I wanted to. But you were so unhappy, once we came to Manderly. Hopping about from seat to seat each night at dinner, as if you didn’t know where to light. And then, after the night in the library, I thought . . . perhaps you were disgusted by what I was. You were always so funny around me—awkward, shy. We were never close, the way we were in Monte.”  

 

“How could we be? How could I ever think to. . . when I could see how melancholy you were? How much you missed her . . . Rebecca? How much even simple friendship with anyone else was a poor second, only a painful reminder of what you had lost . . . with her?”

“What are you talking about it?” Max asked, sharply.

“She’s everywhere, everywhere in the house. All of your lost memories. Whenever I tried to talk to you at dinner, whenever we walked the grounds, I knew that you were thinking: _this_ I did with Rebecca and _this_ and _this_. About how you wished you could have her back again. About how much you still loved her.”

 

Max flew up from the chair, his face cast as if from hard stone. “What? You thought I loved her? You thought I  _killed_  her, loving her?”

He looked about the room as if looking for the right words, and then, they were there, snarling out of him.

“I hated her.”

 

Morse felt as if he had been struck, as if the world was turned upside down. And this was not his melancholy Max with a laugh like one sunbeam through a cloud.

Morse felt himself taking a step back from the man who seemed almost a stranger.

 

“How could I love her? She was incapable of love. She was incapable of tenderness. Or even decency. She wasn’t even . . . normal.”

And then Morse did take a step back, stunned.

“There, I’ve shocked you, haven’t I? What can I say? How can I explain? It was a devil’s bargain from the start. ‘You don’t think I know what you are, Max?’ she said.”

 

And what  _was_  he? Already Morse didn’t understand.

 

“‘You’ll be needing a mistress soon for your precious Manderly,’ she said, ‘or else the tongues will wag. You know it’s true. I’ll make a deal with you. If we marry, I’ll be the perfect picture of a wife. I’ll make your precious Manderly the showcase of England, if you like. And all the suspicions, and all the whispers about you will dissipate into the air. We’ll look perfect together, and everyone will be so envious of us. It will be a triumph! An absolute triumph!  And in return, you will leave me to do exactly as I please.’”

“And so, I took it. I took her filthy bargain. You were right, what you said in Monte, about the dressmaker. You never would have made such a compromise, would you?”

Max took a long drag on his cigarette and said bitterly, “What contempt you must have for me.”

 

Morse didn’t know what to say, he didn't understand a word of it, and Max, oblivious to his uncertainty, roared on.

 

“Do you remember that cliff I drove you to, in Monte? We went there on our honeymoon. And she told me all about herself. Things I’ll never tell another soul.”

“But by then, it was too late. ‘You’d look awful foolish, Max, trying to divorce me after four days,’ she said. At first, she kept her end of the bargain. She took a flat in London, where she would carry on her secret life. She’d come down here, and smile for Dorothea and our grandmother, and all the county. Throw beautiful garden parties. And as soon as the last guest left, she’d tear up to London like an animal to its lair.”

"She was clever. If she had met you, she would have taken your arm and walked with you in the garden. She would have talked to you about music, tossed a stick for Jasper. And you would have been taken in. You would have sat at her feet and worshipped her. Just like all the others.”

"But then, she grew careless. She started to bring her friends down here, holding veritable orgies in her little den by the sea. She’d invite anyone and everyone. It was all the same to her. She cared for no one.”

Max took a drag on his cigarette. "She had one fellow down here, Jakes, a particular favorite, whose reputation preceded him."

 

“Jakes?” Morse asked.

“What?” Max asked sharply.  “Do you know him?”

“He was here, one afternoon, meeting with Mrs. Danvers.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Morse shrugged. “I didn’t like to. I didn’t want to make trouble for anyone.”

“Trouble?” Max scoffed. “I doubt there could be any way that you could add to that.”

 

Max flung his cigarette away. “Once she hitched her cart to Jakes’ star, her parties grew more elaborate, and the gossip spread. She even started in on poor Strange. Poor, devoted Strange. He came to me, and tried to resign. It took me half an hour to get the truth out of him. He didn’t understand. He had always thought our marriage was a happy one.”

“It was about then that I came to understand that Dorothea had never liked Rebecca. She saw right through her, I suppose."

"And then, one night, finally, I'd had enough of it. The blackmail and the ugly threats.  I stormed down here in a rage, to break up all of her loveless debaucheries, to cast her friends and hordes of lovers out. Once they were gone, I said, 'I told you, you keep that in London.  You don’t bring that here. Not to Manderly.’”

"’What's it got to do with you?’ she snapped. But her heart wasn't in the fight. She looked ... ill ... to me. She was pale, drawn. She drew closer.”

"'You’d like an heir, wouldn’t you, Max, for your precious Manderly?'" she said. And then she laughed a laugh that would frighten the devil himself. "'I’ll be the perfect mother, just as I’ve been the perfect wife. And no one will ever know.'"

"And then, she walked up to me, just inches from my face. 'How will it feel, watching my son grow stronger day by day, knowing everything of yours will one day be his? And you won't be able to say a thing about it, will you?’”

“I . .  .” and here, Max faltered, his voice grew slow and heavy. “I wanted nothing more than to get away from her. I pushed her back. But it was strange. She was so frail. She stumbled backwards and hit her head. And I saw that she was....”

“So, I took her body and put it in the cabin of the boat .... And then I took a rock and bashed the hull...  and sank the boat to the bottom of the sea.”

 

Max looked at him then, but Morse could scarcely take in the story. He felt as if he had been caught, like a leaf in a branch, on one point.

 

“You never loved . . . You never loved her?”

 

“No,” Max said, his voice quiet, his voice was his own again. “There’s only one man I’ve ever loved. I thought that you must have understood that.”

He paused for a moment and added, “I’ve loved you from the moment I heard you play, hiding in that corner in Monte.”

 

The air had gone strangely thin, and Morse’s heart was beating against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stepped closer, and....

 

The door slammed open.

“Oh,” Strange said. “Here you are. Inspector Thursday wants to talk to you.”

Morse straightened and tried to still his breathing, to look as if they had been simply conversing about arrangements for the rescuers.

 

“All right,” Morse said. “I’ll come now.”

“No,” Strange said. “Not you.”

He looked then at Max, his face unreadable.

“He wants to talk to Mr. DeBryn.”

 

*****

Morse walked in the wide front doors of Manderly. The Great Hall had been a whirl of light and tinkling crystal and tinkling laughter just a few hours before, but now it lay silent, forgotten scarves and wraps and bits of costume left behind like ghosts in the darkening room, the wind whipping cold and black outside the tall shining windows.

But within Morse, there was an unquenchable warmth. 

He was not, after all, a thing to be cast off, unwanted.

Max loved him. Max had always loved him.  

And that, Morse knew, would be enough to see them through anything.

 

Morse had been sent ahead to make arrangements for food and drink for the men— for the sailors who had shipwrecked on their coast, for the rescuers who had come to their aid, and for the divers, who were working on bringing up the second boat, Rebecca’s boat, which had been found on the bottom of the sea, not far out from where Morse had once stood in the starlit darkness, letting the waves beat up around his shins.

He went to pick up the house phone in the hall, to ring for Mr. Bright. But as soon as his hand was wrapped firm around the receiver, it began to ring. He hesitated, just for a moment, and frowned.

Then he picked it up.

“Morse,” he said.

“Eventful night we are having, aren’t we?”

Morse’s entire body went stone still. It was him. That voice from his first day, when he had broken that wretched cupid in the Morning Room.

“Who is this?” Morse snapped.

“Now, now. No need to be so testy. You are the better angel, after all. Two loves have I of comfort and despair. But why, I ask myself, should old Max be comforted, hmmmm? His family, the whole lot of them, have been living in comfort for long enough, I’d say. Perhaps a little more despair might do Max good.”

“His _family_?” Morse asked. “If you have you some grievance with the DeBryns, you had better come out and make your intentions clear.”

“Oh, I will, Morse. And you’ll have a front row seat. You’ll be my star, even. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Who _is_ this?” Morse said.

But there was nothing on the line but a broken and deranged laughter.

Morse slammed down the receiver.

Well, he was finished with it. He had been bullied long enough. Someone was trying to get to him, that much was clear. But he wouldn’t let it. He just wouldn’t let it, that was all.

 

He picked the phone back up and dialed for the servants’ hall.

“Mr. Bright?” Morse said. “Mr. Strange asked me to come back to see to arrangements for the shipwrecked sailors and the guardsmen,” he said, crisply.

 

Max loved him. And that knowledge, held deep in his heart, filled Morse with newfound strength and resolve. 

He wouldn’t let it get to him. He wouldn’t.

***************

Morse woke, slumped in a chair before the wide, dark window of his bedroom to the sound of pacing footsteps.

Max must have finally returned, must be pacing in his room, reeling from the night’s events.

Morse rose and stole a glance at the clock. It was just past four—the night the deepest it would get before a shadow of lavender lightened the east.

Under the cover of such darkness, Morse felt courage enough for anything. He went down the hall and opened Max’s door without knocking. Max looked up, abruptly, a silhouette before a window.

“Morse?” he asked.

Morse said nothing. He simply walked forward, into the room—for once without hesitation—and put his hands up to frame Max’s cold face. Then, he kissed him. 

Max went still, but Morse was not deterred. He went on, with kisses long and deep and slow, trying to bring him back out of the clouds and chaos of his mind, trying to coax him back to him.

Morse stepped closer, then, pressing his body up against his, rolling his hips in such away as to slide his length against Max’s.

This open display of wantonness seemed to unlock something within Max—suddenly his hands were everywhere, cupping Morse’s arse to slot him even closer, then running up his back and coming over his shoulders to his throat, to undo his tie.

Once Max had cast away the tie away, off into some shadowed corner of the bedroom, his hands were at his buttons, undoing his shirt. Morse obediently drew one arm out and then the other, and, as soon as his shirt fell away, Max went to work on his belt, loosening the buckle and then the buttons of his trousers.

Morse was momentarily stunned at the speed with which Max was now moving, at the alacrity with which he was divesting him of his clothing, but, before Morse could think to speak, Max was pulling his trousers and pants down around his ankles with one sharp rustle of fabric. Morse toed his shoes off and stepped out of the entire mess of it, and it was fine, he was keen to be able to move, to feel Max against him, unencumbered. 

Pale and naked in the shadowed room, Morse pressed himself eagerly up against Max, his skin tingling against the wool of Max’s suit, kissing him, with long, slow deep kisses that made time seem to still.

Max cupped and then squeezed his arse, sending Morse squirming up against him. Then, Max tipped him back onto the bed. and, in an instant, he was on top of him, a warm weight pushing him deep into the mattress.

As thrilling as it had been, feeling his skin slide and rub against the fabric of Max’s suit, it suddenly was not enough. He wanted to feel the warm skin of Max’s chest tight against his, he wanted to wrap his legs around Max, to pull him even closer.

 

Morse’s hands flew to undo Max’s tie, but Max took both of his hands in one of his and stilled them.

 

“Not yet,” he murmured, pulling back and looking him over, stroking his other hand down from Morse’s chest, down and down to his navel. “I just want to look at you,” he said. “I just want to see you plain at last.”

His hand remained languid and lazy, stroking his stomach, and suddenly Morse felt uncertain. What had seemed desperately exciting a moment ago now seemed awkward, and somehow ridiculous, and Morse felt a burn of blush creep across his face as he looked up at Max, who was still buttoned up and even wearing his glasses.

Max’s eyes roved over his body. Morse was just beginning to feel himself shrink under such careful scrutiny, when Max raised his hand from his stomach to push his windblown hair back from his face.

“My god, but you’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. And before Morse could protest—before he could say that no, of course, he wasn’t, Max had bent down and pressed his lips to his in another long and slow kiss.

Morse moaned into Max’s mouth and began again to work on his tie.

And this time, Max let him.

He soon divested him of his tie and shirt and vest, and he was perfect, Max, neat and solid and concise. Morse felt awkward and gawky by comparison, but Max didn’t seem to mind: he pressed him back into the mattress, and there it was, finally and long awaited, the brush of warm skin and the coarse hair of his chest up against his.

 

Max swooped down and kissed his throat, nuzzling against the hair at his temples, and moved his hand down and down until it reached his arse, stroking and cupping it until Morse could do nothing but groan and buck his hips.

Max’s fingertips traced around, then, over his hip and to his cock. He took it in one broad, firm hand and began pumping it from base to tip, slickening his length in the precome that was already leaking from the head.

 

Morse threw his head back and gasped.

 

He lay for a while, stunned and helpless, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, until it was all too much. He wanted to feel all of a Max, naked on top of him, and he half sat up, pushing Max away, so that he could undo the buckle of Max’s belt. He slid the belt from the loops and began working awkwardly to pull at Max’s trousers.

Once he had gotten them off, Morse was overcome with a shudder of desire.

Max’s cock was thick and flushed and standing erect, leaking at the tip. It seemed impossible that he could have such an effect on him.

Morse pulled Max down with him again and wrapped his hand around his cock, pumping it as he had his, reveling in the feel of it stiffening and hardening even further under his touch.

Max reared back slightly, putting some space between them, and laid his hand back on Morse’s jutting hip. And then, instead of returning his hand to his cock, he pushed lightly at his inner thigh, spreading his legs further apart, before tracing his fingertips along the cleft of Morse’s arse.

Morse shuddered at the surprising sensation and gasped aloud.

Max laughed softly and low, and continued trailing his finger back and forth between his legs, until the strokes narrowed in their focus, until they were circling his entrance.

Morse’s hand on Max’s cock slowed, and then fell away completely, as he lay there, his mind hazy, overwhelmed by Max’s touch.

 

“Just a moment,” Max whispered, and then his hand was gone, and Max reared further back, back onto his knees.

 Morse groaned as the hand was withdrawn, and Max laughed again, softly.  

 

Max moved over and opened a drawer of his nightstand; he seemed to shift about for something, and Morse frowned in confusion. What was he doing? Was he looking for something in his odds and ends drawer right now?

 

But then Max was back, kissing his throat, and tracing his fingers again along his entrance, but this time, his fingers were thick with ointment. And it was cold, but it felt good, too—so good that Morse let his legs fall open further and sighed into Max’s ear.

And then, in one deft movement, Max’s oiled finger slipped inside.

Morse gasped as his hole gave way to the broad finger, one that was soon pumping into him, stroking him so heavily that Morse found himself raising his arse off the mattress to increase the pressure, rocking his hips to send Max’s finger in deeper.

 “Do you like that, then?” Max murmured.

The words reached some distant corner of Morse’s brain, but he couldn’t quite register them, he couldn’t bring himself to stop the rolling of his hips to answer.

And anyway, how was one to answer such a question? Why would Max even ask such a thing?

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Max said, and Morse felt a twinge of annoyance.

Why must he be so sardonic, even now? It seemed profane, indecent, even to speak at all.

Morse half sat up and sealed his lips to his, to stop him from saying anything more, and then reached up to take hold, once again, of his cock. He wanted to leave Max as speechless as he felt, but, as soon as he took Max’s throbbing length in his hand, Morse felt himself melt even further.

As he pumped Max’s cock to the same rhythm with which Max rocked his finger in and out of his arse, it was hard not to imagine what it might feel like to be penetrated, not just by Max’s finger, but by his cock—ramrod erect and slick and warm—it was hard not to imagine what it would feel like to be so intimately soldered together, to hold Max’s length deep within his body, to feel his cock breach him and slide inside, pushing and thrusting into him, to feel him come, in a hot liquid rush, inside of him.

He began to coax Max’s cock downwards, toward his entrance.

Max understood at once his desire and moaned aloud, finally, finally undone.

 

“Are you sure?” he panted, “Is it alright?”

 

As he spoke, he reached up and scooped another dollop of ointment from the bedside table and inserted two and then three fingers into him, pressing gently against the sides of his hole, as if stretching him, as if preparing him for something more, as if preparing him to take in his sizable cock.

The thought sent Morse reeling. He couldn’t speak; he was far beyond words. He could only reach up to guide Max down more vehemently.

Max kept railing him with three fingers, but then, suddenly, he stopped and pulled them out, leaving Morse alone, clenching down on nothing.

 

Morse paused and opened his eyes. Max was looking at him solemnly. For a moment, Morse thought he must have done something wrong for him to gaze at him so.

But Max raised a hand to stroke his hair back from his face. “It would be easier, for your first time, if I took you from behind.”

 

Morse looked at him uncomprehendingly. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure whether or not Max was laughing at him.

Why would he say it was his first time? What had he done that Max could tell?

 

But Max wasn’t laughing. His gaze was quiet and serious. It was the same look that he had given Morse the night he fell asleep in the library, when he had looked at him as if he were something precious.

 

“Will you?” he asked, stroking his hand lightly down his chest, down across his hip and inner thigh, down to find its way home again, circling his entrance. He thrust his fingers in again and swooped down to kiss him.

“Will you?” Max murmured, rocking his fingers in and out of him so slowly that Morse yearned for more. “I’ve wanted so long to be inside of you, Endeavour. So long. Will you roll over to your front for me? I’ll fill you so much better than than this. So much better.”

Morse looked into Max’s eyes, and they were a darker blue than he had ever remembered.

And then, Morse did as Max had asked.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse and Max's issues sort of hijacked this chapter.... I'm not sure what to think about it, but if I don't post it, I'll never got on with the main plot of the story... :D
> 
> I hope it's all right. 
> 
> Also, the scene at the end is rated E again--you will know when to look away :0) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Morse awoke with the sun steaming in his face, blinking lazily against the light.

He was lying on his stomach, his legs tangled up with Max’s, with Max’s head resting warm and heavy on his left shoulder and his arm circled around his waist.

 

He startled, then, and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly half eight. Soon, the household would be stirring; soon, the servants would begin their rounds, righting the rooms and cleaning the hearths from the night’s fires.

As gently as he could, Morse extricated himself from under Max and gathered his clothes up from off the floor. He stepped into his trousers, bundled up his shirt in his hands, and crept over to the bedroom door, opening it just a crack.  

 

He looked out into the hall. All was still and silent.

 

He dashed down the hallway, keeping his footfalls soft, until he reached his own door. It was only after he closed it behind him that he could begin to breathe again.

And then he gave another start of surprise.

Suddenly, he felt a cooling trickle of something running out of him, down his legs. Hurriedly, he locked his door from the inside.

 

He felt a mess, he felt glorious, he felt as if would be difficult to make himself presentable in the next half hour, to learn to set his face to look as if none of this had happened.

 

He went into his small bath, ran the tub with warm water, stripped off his trousers, and sank in. Then he soaped up his hair and slipped all the way down under the water, opening his eyes and looking up at the white and blue tiled ceiling.

 

This was how the world used to look to him: as if he lived on a different plane from everyone else, as if he was outside a thick pane of glass, looking in.

 

And now, he was in the world. A world that was color and light. A world in which he had a place.

 

A world in which he was loved.

 

He lay there, as if floating on a bubble.

 

Until it popped.

His trousers.

He certainly couldn’t throw them down the laundry chute.

 

He’d have to wash them out in the sink, hang them inside his wardrobe, and hope they’d dry there, where they wouldn’t be seen.

 

He got out of the tub, then, drying himself vigorously with a towel, and went over to the mirror above the sink, wiping the steam away with one hand, so that he could look at his face.

 

He turned his face from side to side. His heart was so near to bursting, he thought that his secret must be stamped across his features. He expected to see some new sophistication there in his expression, for his eyes to shine with some new and secret knowledge.

 

But no, he looked just as young and awkward and vacuous as he had before.

 

_“I was thoroughly buggared twice-over by my employer last night, and I found it all rather ripping.”_

Oh, god.

He was hopeless. 

 

Morse felt vaguely disappointed, although, considering his need for subterfuge, he supposed it was a good thing.

He washed his trousers out in the sink, hid them in the wardrobe, dressed, and looked at himself again.

No. No one could see any difference in him. He would simply go downstairs as if nothing had ever happened. And no one would ever know.

 

*****

By the time Morse descended the sweeping stairs, he felt as crisp and fresh as the new summer morning, all buttoned up and neatly pressed in a new shirt he had ordered from London.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Max came into the room.

“Good morning, Max,” he said. “I forgot to tell you, yesterday, what with the party and all of the . . .  night’s . . . . events. Strange and I have this month’s rents tabulated in the books, if you wanted to look over them.”

 

Max blinked at him as if he didn’t know what to make of him. And for a moment, Morse felt wrong-footed.

 

Wasn’t this just what he was supposed to do? After all, he could hardly greet him with a kiss.

 

But before he could consider it further, before he could ask Max the question with his eyes, George came into the room to add a tray of fruit to the sideboard. Morse turned away, chose a hard-boiled egg and a piece of toast, and went to sit at the table.

 

He tossed the napkin aside as a matter of habit, but then, he snatched it back again. Why should he fear any embroidered _R_ s? He was through being bullied by a mere letter.

He unfolded the napkin with a snap of his hand and looked at it. It was plain ivory linen, with no black, silk _R_. He breathed a sharp sigh of relief.

Then he half-startled in his chair. Did that mean whoever had been playing this trick knew, then? Did that mean that someone knew that Rebecca’s spell had been broken, that she was his rival no more?

 

“What the devil are you thinking about?” came a voice.

“What?” Morse asked.

“You’ve just worked yourself through the oddest little pantomime,” Max said.

“Oh,” Morse said. “It’s . . . . it’s nothing.”

 

It was then, Morse noticed, that Max’s face had resumed its stony expression.

 

Morse’s heart fell. If he had been disappointed to find that his own face had not changed after last night, it was nothing compared to the sinking realization that Max looked absolutely no different, either.

 

“Well,” Max said. “If you are through with whatever game you are playing, I had thought that perhaps you might be getting on with things. I’ll be going into Kerrith for the next few days for the inquest. Strange will have to accompany me, as he was here at Manderly when the accident occurred and also with me when I made the misidentification.”

 

“ _Inquest_?” Morse asked, wonderingly. “Couldn’t you just explain that you . . . that you must have made a mistake last year, when … when you identified the woman found at Edgecombe?”

 

“That doesn’t explain the holes in the hull of the sailboat. Evidently, the divers don’t think that the damage was done by the rocks. It looks as if someone might have done the thing . . . deliberately.”

 

Morse frowned. Suddenly, he realized he had been terribly naïve.

 

Did he not understand, fully, what Max had done?

 

He had told himself that it was an accident, he had forgiven Max, because he would never be able  _not_  to forgive him, and because it seemed as if he had already suffered long enough with the weight of it all.

 

But had it not occurred to him that there might be some sort of inquiry . . . that there might be some sort of . . . trial, possibly?

 

No, it hadn’t. He hadn’t thought at all of the wider world.

Only of the bubble he had floated on since Max had said he loved him.

 

“So, in my absence, and with Strange gone as well, you’ll be needing to run things here,” Max said.

Morse’s eyes widened. “Wha...?” He began, but then he quickly corrected himself.

 “Oh, yes. Of course,” he amended, trying to sound bracing, trying to sound as brisk and efficient as Strange.

 

Max scowled and snatched at a letter that had come for him in the morning post. He read it, then, with narrowed eyes, as if Morse was not even there.  

 

Suddenly, Morse couldn’t help but wonder if he had done the job rather  _too_  well.

After all, Max had lived for years in a house, and in a marriage, where everything masqueraded as what it was not.

 

 _But what can I do? What other choice do I have?_ Morse wanted to ask.

 

Just then, Max threw the letter down on the table in disgust.

“And, to top all, my sister writes that she’s coming down from Oxford as soon as she’s able to ‘lend her support.’”

 

Morse brightened at once at this. He wasn’t sure if he knew quite _how_ to run everything on his own, and, if Dorothea were to visit, he would at least have someone to consult without worrying that he was embarrassing himself. It would be a relief, really, just to have a friendly face about.

 

“Oh,” Morse said, “that would be rather . . .”

He managed to stop himself midsentence, but since he had gone that far, what was the point of keeping up the mask, what was the point of leaving the clause to hang?

“ . . . rather ripping,” Morse finished, miserably.

 

Morse wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed for a moment as if Max had quirked a hint of a smile. Then, without having any breakfast, he got up from his chair.

 

“I’m off to meet Strange. We might get dinner in Kerrith, if we’re very late.”

 

Morse felt a jolt at that. Would he be gone all of the day, then? What could they possibly have to discuss at the courts that would take all day?  
 

“All right,” Morse said.

 

And then, Max was gone.

 

Morse would just have to explain, that was all. He would have to explain when he got back to Max’s room that night, once they were behind the closed door, when the world was all in shadow.

When they could be themselves again.

**********

 

After breakfast, Morse went into the Morning Room, as he usually did, following the relentless routine of the house.

 

Well, if he was going to be attempting to run the place now, he’d need a proper office.

 

The first thing he did was to go down to the kitchens, a place where he had never dared to venture.

Even efficient Mr. Bright was not fully able to hide his surprise.

“Mr. Morse! Good heavens!”

“Sorry to trouble you,” Morse said. “But do you have a box about? Just any heavy cardboard one will do.”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course.”

 

Morse went back up to the Morning Room, carrying the box along, and then went straight to the heaviest shelf in the room, one that stood against the east wall. 

He took all of the vases and porcelain bric-a-brac off of the thing and put it all in the box; then, he dragged the shelf so that it covered the Venetian tapestry, behind which lay the secret door that he had discovered when Mr. Jakes was visiting.

He loaded the shelf with his own heavy books, which he had kept stored in his trunk upstairs.

He stepped back, then, brushing his hands in satisfaction, considering it.

There.

No one should be able to use that passage now to play any tricks on him, that much was certain.

Then, he went over to the desk, and tossed all of the other things in: the appointment book and the address book and all of the things emblazoned with bold, sweeping letter _R_ s.

He found a stack of returned party invitations, and one on top danced out at him: _Mr. and Mrs. Maximilian DeBryn request the honor of the presence of Mr. Peter Jakes at the Manderly Fancy Dress Ball,_ and so on and so forth, and across the bottom, in a bold hand, the written words— “Rebecca—I’ll be there—and how!”

 

Well, ‘and how,’ indeed, most enthusiastically, one supposed, Morse thought, and then he tossed the whole stack into the box.

 

He sat down at the cleared desk, then, and picked up the house telephone.

“Mr. Bright? Please tell Mrs. Danvers I’d like to see her in the Morning Room please.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

Morse sat waiting with a most wondrous sense of calm. And when the black clad figure came in, he felt it—a new wash of courage. How childish he had been to ever have been afraid of such a person, with her rattling threats and her unquenchable unhappiness.

 

She, for once, looked uncertain. Typically, he had avoided her like the black death, and now, he had summoned her, just as a member of Max’s staff might summon a housekeeper for a menial errand.

He stood at once.

“Mrs. Danvers. I’ll need you to take these things and get rid of them. They’re all very much in the way here.”

She looked into the box, and an odd cloud of confusion rolled over her face. “But . . . but these are all Mrs. DeBryn’s things.”

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “But this is my office now.”

 

She looked at him for a cold minute and said, “As you wish, sir.”

And then she marched out, a thin line of quivering anger, taking the box with her.

Morse sank back down behind the emptied desk. He wondered if he might one day pay for that bit of impudence, but, in the battle between them, at least he had finally drawn a firm line.

 

**************

Max did not come back to the house for dinner, as he had said he might. Morse felt foolish sitting at the long table alone, so he took some fruit and biscuits from the sideboard and hustled with them upstairs to eat on his bed in his room while he read, waiting for Max to return.

 

But, as he had had little sleep the night before, and as he was feeling keenly the strain of the past few days, Morse only managed a few pages before his eyes grew heavy.

He rested them for just a moment.

 

When he opened them, the room was blackened by the night, the garden outside the wide windows silvered with moonlight.

 

Morse had hoped that Max might come to him once he was home, but, all the while, someplace deep inside of him, he knew that he wouldn’t.

 

It would be, Morse knew, a point of honor with him. Max was older, he was his employer—he would never actively pursue him. Once Morse initiated things, Max would be happy enough to take control, but he would never be the one to move that first pawn across the chessboard.

 

Morse went to his door and opened it, looking both ways down the hall. It was dark and silent.

He walked down the hall quietly but purposefully; if he was seen, he did not want to give off the impression that he was skulking off to some appointed rendezvous.

 

Max’s room was quiet, the curtains drawn against the moon, the high, four-poster bed shrouded in shadow. Max himself was asleep, looking younger without his glasses, a faint line between his brows.

Morse pulled off his pajamas and slid under the covers, pressing warm against him, but still, Max did not wake.

Morse cast one long leg over him, then, and kissed Max’s forehead, so that the line there faded, and his breathing deepened.

He smiled and nuzzled his head down onto the pillow, and, within a few minutes, he felt himself also drifting off to sleep.

 

Gradually, Morse became aware of a gentle brush of a hand carding though his hair. He nuzzled further into the pillow, relaxing under the touch, and sighed.

 

“You came back,” Max murmured.

 

It was odd; it was more like a question than a statement.

Morse opened his eyes.

 

“Of course, I came back, Max," he said. 

 

Then, Max’s hands were framing his face. He kissed his eyelids and then his mouth, and Morse rolled over to his back, moving his face away from the pillow, so that he could return his kisses more thoroughly.

Max was hovering over him, then, putting a hand at his waist, and Morse tensed, felt a flutter of worry in the pit of his stomach. It had all been so exciting the night before, but he was still tender where Max had entered him; he wasn’t sure if he could take him again so readily.

But Max seemed content this night with kisses; he kissed his forehead and pushed his hair back from his face, until Morse found his eyes growing heavy once more, until he felt again as if he was floating on a bubble, warm and safe and falling away into a dream.  

 

 

*******

The next morning, by the time that Morse came down to breakfast, Max had already left for Kerrith. Morse felt a strain of sadness enter the bright morning; he had slipped from Max’s bed when he was still asleep, and he had wanted to see him, awake and in the light of day, as if to assure himself that the soft and hazy memory of last night had been real.

 

 He went about his day, making the rounds and keeping the books up to date as best he could, but, by the late afternoon, he felt restless with wondering what was happening in the villiage, with wondering when Max would return, and so he took Jasper out for a ramble.

 

Who knew? He might even see Max driving along home in his black car, down the sweeping drive, coming back to him, just as he had when Morse had been loading Mrs. Van Hopper’s luggage into the car back in Monte.

 

Morse headed out along the tree-lined path, strolling through the puddles of shade cast by the spreading elms and occasionally racing along with Jasper, who ran like a russet blur streaking out ahead of him. Suddenly, a small, familiar car came trundling along. It slowed as it approached.

“Morse!” Dorothea called, through the open car window.

“Hello!” Morse replied.

 

And then, the realization hit Morse with an odd sort of swoop: he had been so looking forward to Max’s sister’s arrival, that he hadn’t thought of the broader ramifications of her visit.

She was Max’s sister—she knew him better than anyone—and she was uncannily perceptive to boot. Would she see something different in him or in Max? Would she sense a glimmer of what now lay between them?

 

Dorothea pulled the car alongside of him and tilted her head, gesturing to the passenger seat.

 

“Get in,” she said. “I’ll drive you back up.”

“I have Jasper with me,” he demurred.

“Looks to me like you’ve been having a bit of a wander. If your hems are anywhere near the state they were in when first we met, I doubt that Jasper will get the car any muddier than you will. Now get in. Go on. Bring the blasted dog, too.”

“All right,” Morse said, laughing, then.

He went up to the car and opened the back door; Jasper did not need to be asked twice—the small spaniel leapt into the back seat like a spring made of shaggy fur.

 

Once Morse settled himself in the passenger’s seat, Dorothea turned to him. “So?” she asked. “How is it all going? How is Max?”

 

“I don’t.... I don’t know, really . . . he hasn’t told me anything about it much.”

She looked at him, sharply. “You haven’t gone with him and Strange to the courts?”

“No.”

“Mmmm,” Dorothea hummed. She watched the road ahead, her mouth pursed in a thoughtful twist. “Well. Perhaps in this one instance, he’s right. Perhaps the less you have to do with any of it, the better.”

 

Morse frowned. It was a statement that could be taken in any number of ways.

And then it occurred to him: he _had_ been right to worry: she _did_ know something, or at least suspected—and perhaps even had for some time, perhaps even before he had known it himself.

It was just that....bizarrely enough...she didn’t seem to care. How could that be?

 

Morse stole a surreptitious glance at her as she was driving, trying to work out the puzzle. 

 

“What?” Dorothea asked. “Do I have cake crumbs on my face?”

“What?” Morse asked.

“You were giving me an odd look. I just stopped at Emilie’s Tea House on the drive down. I thought perhaps I had crumbs on my face.”

“No,” Morse said.

 

Dorothea laughed merrily then, and Morse suddenly came to doubt she had been to any tea house at all.

 

“I just wondered . . . what you meant. . . . that’s all,” Morse ventured.

 

Dorothea’s face grew thoughtful again. “Well,” she said. “The accident happened long before you ever came to Cornwall, didn’t it? It isn’t as if you had any part to play in it. Best if you keep a low profile through the whole affair, hmmmmmm?”

 

Morse felt his heart sink; he found he had to turn away, to look out of the window as he allowed the truth of the matter to bore into him, to find its way home.

It must be true, then, for Dorothea to say such a thing— Max was under some cloud of suspicion in the matter of Rebecca’s death.

It was such a melodramatic thought, it was something so out of kilter with what Morse knew to be true of his own life, that he couldn’t quite grasp it. 

If it _was_ true, then Max had been right in keeping him clear of it all. He was merely a junior member of staff, employed at Manderly for only two months; it wouldn’t do for him to go to the courts looking pale with fear, wringing his hands over his employer’s fate.

It wouldn’t do for him to be seen at _all_ , for that matter. Max could hardly play the role of the grieving husband with Morse seated on the bench behind him, looking as if his life depended on the court’s decision, or even worse, thrumming with that hum of passion he felt whenever Max so much as brushed by him.

 

It was all so sordid, really.

And now, he was in the middle of it.

 

Morse watched the trees pass by, feeling slightly nauseated. 

It was as if his heart had been drifting and soaring with the play of sunlight over summer green leaves, and now it had faltered, quivered with its first taste of frost. 

 ****************

Morse wondered if he would be able to hide his growing sense of disquiet at dinner, but then, he had forgotten how when Max and Dorothea were together, it was easy to sit on the sidelines, to watch as the words flew. 

 

“What do you make of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact?” Dorothea said. "Rather bad news for us, isn't it?" 

“Is it?” Max asked airily. “I wouldn’t know.”

Dorothea regarded him blankly. “The freshly signed pact. Between the Soviet Union and Germany. You can't tell me you haven’t heard of it?”

“I’ve been rather busy of late, Dorothea.”

“The world extends beyond your little kingdom by the sea, Max. You might want to raise your head and look around every now and again. The continent is in a grim state.”

“I’m sure it is. And it will remain so whether I will it or no.”

“You want to show a care, Max,” Dorothea countered. “I’m certain that Morse must.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t _care_ ,” Max said, testily. “I merely meant there isn’t a lot I can do about which way the world turns, is there?” 

“No, there isn’t. But we must all of us try. And being informed is the first step. Ask Morse; he must be following events rather closely. It’s his future, after all.”

 

Morse felt a trace of alarm at being so heartily recommended; he had not been following the newspapers, either. He hadn’t looked at them at all, really, save for the occasional crossword.

 

His uncertainty must have shown on his face, for suddenly, Dorothea laughed. “What a pair of princes you are. You haven’t been following the news at all, have you?”

 

Max set his fork down and looked at her pointedly. “I may be accustomed to your censure, Dorothea, but may I ask why you keep bringing Morse into this?”

Dorothea frowned, a sharp line creasing her brow. “Why, I would have thought that would be obvious.”

 

She turned to Morse, then.

“How old are you, Morse?”

 

Morse hesitated: he didn’t particularly want to enter their conversation at all, let alone answer such a potentially loaded question. 

 

“Nineteen,” he said, at last.

 

“There you go,” Dorothea said. “The perfect age to go for a soldier.”

Max’s face clouded. “Surely Britain can defeat Nazi Germany without the help of one land agent.”

“No,” Dorothea said. “I don’t know that it can, Max, and well you know it, too.”

 

“But...” Morse said. 

“But what?” Dorothea said at once.

“It’s just . . . I don’t know how to _be_ in a war,” Morse said.

 

He didn’t know if he knew how to run Manderly, truth be told. How could he be of any use in anything on a broader, even a global, scale?

 

“They’ll teach you quickly enough,” Dorothea said. “That’s what war is. Young men playing an old men’s game for them. One wonders if they fought the things themselves, if we’d have so many of them.”

 

Morse looked down at his plate, lost in thought. He had thought perhaps Max might have to leave him.

But perhaps .... he would have to leave Max first?

 

It struck Morse then: perhaps they had been wrong in seeking their own snatch of happiness when the world was suffering, when the world was in such a state.  

Perhaps they had been selfish.

Perhaps fate would make them pay.

But no, that couldn’t be right, could it? If a man finds some measure of happiness in this world, surely that has to be a good thing.

Doesn’t it?

Morse wasn’t certain. And the one person he might dare to ask such a thing was also the one person who he couldn’t.

 

**********

 

Morse tried to recapture the buoyancy of those first few days of his affair with Max, but, as the week went on, his sense of triumph faded.

It seemed somehow as if he had made some sort of trade: he had won Max, but he had lost a part of him, too—the part that he had first grown to love.

At night, he stole into Max’s room, and, as soon as the door was shut behind him, they were in their own world, a world in which they did not have to fear looks or whispers. Morse was free to lie naked in his arms until dawn.

But, even though Morse still saw no difference in his face when he looked in the mirror, he came to feel certain that, if he stood side by side with Max or sat with him for too long, the energy between them would be difficult to miss.

 

When he had first come to Manderly, he had accompanied Max on walks through the fields, on his rounds of the estate—keeping by his side just as he had in Monte—but now, he dared not be seen rambling along with him, lest passerby note how readily their strides fell into harmony, how their footsteps measured together.

He dared not sit and talk with him too long at dinner, lest a servant bringing in the tea pick up on the static of raw electricity that seemed to crackle between them, or notice how Morse’s hand might tremble as it brushed Max’s, if they both reached for a piece of bread at the same time.

And, of course, they had lost the nights before the library fire long, long ago.

 

It was as if, once their friendship turned to love, it had to be taken underground, to some darker, sadder, more solemn place.

 

They made love in secret, in the shadows, but they lost their place in the sun.

 

What distressed Morse the most was this: if had still been a friend to Max only, he might have helped him with the burden of these days. But, as things stood, he did not dare to ask him what was happening at the inquest, about what was happening in Kerrith, lest he inadvertently tip some sort of balance. It was imperative that his life with Max be kept distinctly separate, lest someone look at them and understand.

 

He couldn’t ask, not directly. He could only follow along on the ebb and tide of Max’s moods.

 

One some nights, Max seemed younger, happier, as if his cares had finally flown him, as if there had been a breakthrough, as if he might finally be allowed to put his past behind him.

 

One night, Max kissed a playful line down the center of Morse’s chest, down the line of coarse hair that led down from his navel, and then took his cock into his mouth in one warm, deep movement.

The sensation was as nothing he had ever felt before, and Morse could do nothing but gasp wide-eyed at the ceiling, twisting the sheets in his hands, as Max moved over him. Even after he finally came, spasming with his orgasim, Max did not pull back; he remained just where he was, swallowing in quick pulses, until Morse sank limp into the mattress and sighed. 

 

Later, Morse tried his best to reciprocate, but it was a bit more difficult than it looked, and, when Max came, he ended up making a hash of things, and making a mess of himself into the bargain.

 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Max, a flutter of anxiety roiling in his stomach; he had heard somewhere, back when he was at Oxford, that this was a breach in etiquette, simply overall bad form.

 

But Max only laughed. “I don’t suppose you learned to play the piano all in one day, either,” he said.

Morse began to feel a flare of annoyance.

How was it that Max seemed to guess everything about him?  

But then the feeling evaporated as quickly as it had come, and he smiled and wiped his face. It was all right, Max knowing he was new at this. What was the point in pretending?

It was all right, Max knowing the truth.

 

But just a few nights later, Max seemed restless, as if brooding under some dark cloud of energy. He took Morse, then, as he had that first night; In the early hours of the morning, after deep and distracted kisses, and frantic caresses, he rolled him over and lifted his hips and thrust into him, until Morse came in a shudder and Max collapsed in a warm heap on top of him.

 

Afterwards, Morse lay among the pillows, limp and sated and tingling with a delicious sense of completion. 

 

He was just drifting off, when Max, who was sitting up against the headboard, said, “If I were to go away somewhere, would you come with me?”

 

“Yes,” Morse murmured in answer, at once.

 

“You haven’t even asked me where we would be going,” Max said, and his voice was icy.

Morse blinked. “Does it matter?”

“It would matter to most people, yes, I would think,” he said.

Morse said nothing.

“I hope you understand,” Max continued, “that I’m in no position to be responsible for your happiness.”

“I . . . I never asked you to be.”

“And yet you say that if I gave the word, you would come away with me, no questions asked?”

Morse narrowed his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, Endeavour,” Max said, with awful sarcasm. “Perhaps I’d feel better knowing you had  _some_  sense of self-preservation?”

 

Morse felt as if he had been slapped. “You know? You aren’t always a kind person.”

Max laughed. “Oh? Just discovering that now, are we?”

“But at least you had your manners,” Morse continued. “I might have nothing, but I think it’s awfully low for someone like you to point that out. I might have no home and no family and no other place to go, other than where you might bid me, but it would have been kinder of you to have pretended we were on some sort of an equal footing, at least where our friendship is concerned. It would have been kinder of you not to have _rubbedmyfaceinit_.”

Morse sprang up then. He could only thank god that his trousers were balled at the foot of the bed and he could get the things on discretely. Just a moment before he had been happily sprawled out across Max’s bed; but now, he had no desire at all to stand naked before him.

 

Max’s face was a study in contradiction; he looked slightly heartened, but slightly alarmed as well.

 

“Endeavour . . . " he began.

“No,” Endeavour said. “Don’t call me that. I never, ever said that you could call me that.”

 

He looked about the room, then, as if casting about for something horrible to say. “I’m finished with it,” he said. “I’m finished with you taking your bad temper out on me. If you live in the shadows long enough, you forget the light.”

 

Max said nothing, and Morse was halfway to the door before he began to speak.

“I wonder....,” Max said

And Morse paused where he was.

“I wonder If I’ve done a very selfish thing, allowing myself to love somebody like you.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Morse asked shortly. 

 

“A life of shadows. It isn’t for you," Max said. 

 

"Here's an idea," Morse said. "Why don't you let me decide what sort of life is the life for me. How's that?"

He snatched up his shirt, then, and pulled that on, too, half hating Max for making him to feel so ridiculous, and then stalked out of the room. 

************ 

After he made it back to his room, after he bathed and dressed, he didn’t go down to breakfast in the dining room. Instead, he went straight to the piano in the Great Hall and began to play.

 

He started with a slow roll, and then the music was storming along like thunder: suddenly, he felt some new power surging through his arms and down through his fingertips as he struck the keys.

Max’s problems were immense compared to his—he might be on trial for murder for all that Morse knew, for all they weren’t allowed to talk about it—but Morse was angry, too.  

It  _was_ ashadowed life.

And it was all unfair, it was cruel beyond belief that he had finally, finally found something worth holding onto, but he had to keep his hands locked so tightly around it that not one bit of its light could shine through his fingers; he could not allow one bit of the light that beat in his heart to shine out of his eyes.

He had to keep all of it, all of it squelched and contained, until the waves of light were beating against him from the inside out, making him to feel as if he might fly apart.

And he _was_ flying apart, he was flying apart into the notes that crashed and soared out of him, and it was tremendous, and he never would have dreamed he would be capable of producing such a sound. He had had all of the precision, but none of the passion, and now he was channeling both.

He wasn’t even sitting on the bench anymore; he felt as if was rolling off on it, on the dark clouds of music that he sent soaring out ahead of him.

His hands rippled up and down the keys like heavy rain, like a storm. It was order on the brink of chaos, and his hands were flying, and his heart felt like it would burst. He was the nightingale impaling itself on a thorn for one last and fatal song.

 

Max came banging into the room in a cymbal crash of heavy footfalls.

“Stop this. Stop this at once!”

Morse struck one final chord and turned fast on the seat; his breath was heaving; it was as if he had been running.

“Is this what you have been doing in my absence? Instead of looking over the accounts?”

“I _have_ looked over everything,” Morse said scathingly. 

 

Max blinked, surprised at the tenor of his voice.

 

“I looked over everything and made my decision. It was _my_ decision I thought, to make,” Morse added.

 

Max faltered, for once, uncertain, for once, their roles reversed.

 

“Well. You haven’t looked over this,” Max said, slapping a folder on top of the piano.  “The accounts man in Kerrith has got everything wrong, wrong, wrong. What a sight the papers are in. That parcel over on the north side we’re renting out to Summers this year, it’s not even accounted for.”

 

Morse sat looking at him in disbelief. Did Max miss the meaning of what he had said? Did he honestly think that he gave a damn about the minutia of the estate right now?

 

“I’ll need you to come with me, to help clear this up.”

Max was looking at him steadily, but Morse did not look away.

“Fine,” Morse said.

 

He leapt up off the piano bench and headed out through the hall, out the door, down the wide steps and then over to where Max’s black car was parked and waiting at the head of the drive.

But this, too, seemed to anger Max.

“It’s not so far that we can’t walk, is it?” he asked shortly.

“No,” Morse said.

Max turned away then, charging with his typical brisk stride down the drive, and Morse kept pace him, step by step.

He’d been doing his best. What had Max expected?

 

And that’s when Morse realized: Max didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t know what he wanted.

 

 

As soon as they made it out to the fields of tall grasses, rhododendron and fennel, Max’s pace finally slowed. Morse, who had been striding to keep up with him all the while, suddenly found himself a few paces ahead.

And then, Max’s hand was on his upper arm, halting him, and his mouth was at his nape, in a firm and tingling kiss.

The unexpected warmth and pressure, right along such a sensitive stretch of skin, made Morse’s knees half-buckle. Max seemed to sense it, and he put his hands around his waist and turned him, kissing him firmly on the mouth, as they sank together into the grass.

Here, far from the house, they were enveloped in a curtain of green, hidden from the world save for a patch of blue sky and the rolling white clouds above.

Max’s mouth on his was frantic, his kisses short and impatient, and, just as when they were walking, Morse felt he had to struggle to keep up. His heart was racing, not only from the thrill of having Max’s lips on his and his hands on him everywhere, but from the sheer recklessness of it all, from the fear that somebody might happen to come along the path and see them.

 

Max’s kisses slowed and deepened, and Morse felt his breathing slow in sympathy, and he lay back, trembling in the soft grass that smelled like the end of summer and faintly of licorice.

 

He began to pull Max along down into the grass with him, but Max resisted, bracing himself as they kissed with one arm. Instead, he reached back and pulled Morse’s shoes off one at a time.

 

Then his hands went to Morse’s belt.

 

Morse pulled back, then, from Max’s kiss; it was the first time he had ever broken their spell by speaking.

“What if someone . . .” he began . . . 

... but Max dove in and kissed him again, before he could say the words, unlatching his belt with one deft hand.

As soon as the buckle was loosened and the buttons undone, Max pulled at his trousers, rolling them off and tossing them aside, leaving Morse to suddenly find himself sitting half-naked in the grass.

Before Morse could even question the wisdom of what they were doing, Max kissed him again and began tracing circles with his fingertips on the inside of his bare thigh, until Morse sighed into Max’s mouth and felt himself relax against him.

 

 After all, what was to fear? It was glorious beyond belief, to lie warmed in the sun, caressed by a soft summer wind, encircled in Max’s arms. 

 

Max’s hand stroked his thigh idly, then wandered down to circle his entrance, and Morse felt a burn of pink flush across his face.

He had bathed that morning, but the cleft of his arse and even one trail at the top of his thigh were still wet and glistening with the remnants of come that Max had shot into him just before dawn— remnants that Morse had felt slowly leaking from him as they had thundered across the fields. 

 

He had thought before that perhaps there was something else he was supposed to do about it but . . . who on earth would he ever be able ask?

 

Max slipped one finger inside him, and Morse felt his face burn an even deeper red at how easily it slid in. But before he could move to close his legs, Max groaned aloud at the slick feel of him, a deep and desperate sound of pure hunger, a sound that caused any embarrassment Morse held to evaporate, a sound that left Morse completely undone.

 

Max’s hand began to work furiously at his belt, freeing his cock, already flushed and erect and leaking at the tip.

Vaguely, Morse wondered if he should turn around as he had learned to do, on his knees with his legs spread and his arse tilted, making it easier for Max to mount him.

But Max’s hands returned to his thighs, holding him where he was. Suddenly, he pulled them up and threw his legs over his shoulders. And then, with no words and little fanfare, he pressed the broad head of his cock up against his entrance and pushed, breaching him, plunging smoothly into him until he was buried to the hilt.

Morse let out a surprised gasp, and already Max was jostling him, as if realigning him. Then, Max pulled back and thrust his cock in again.

Morse couldn’t help it; he let out a keening, echoing cry as Max hit that spot, that spot within him that seemed to make his vision go white, his entire body shudder.

 

Morse’s heart was racing. What if someone had heard him? It would be difficult to mistake the tenor of such a cry.

 

But Max only smiled to himself, as if that was just the sound that he was hoping to hear, reared back, and began pounding into him in a steady rhythm.

 

Morse threw his head back and was keening, then, with every thrust. Every now and then, he willed himself to open his eyes, to watch Max’s face moving against the blue sky above him.

Max’s pace grew more frenetic—it was as if, for the first time, his thrusts were not about initiating Morse, but rather purely for his own pleasure. There was something exhilarating in his determined expression, in watching Max claim him utterly, and Morse, with his legs locked over Max’s shoulders, could do nothing but lie in the soft grass and ride there, abandoning himself to the rhythm Max set.

Morse spread his arms wide and grabbed at fistfuls of grass, twisting them in his hands as he cried out, up to the sky.

 

Then, Max jostled him again, rolling his hips back so that his length plunged into him still more deeply, and Morse shuddered.

Without a second to spare, Max moved to pull Morse’s shirt up with one hand, just before he came all over his now bare stomach.

And then Morse was contracting even more tightly around Max’s cock, and Max moaned aloud, grasping both of his hips once more in his broad hands and grinding hard up against him, holding him firmly in place, as he came, spilling inside him.

Max half collapsed over him, then, but stayed in him, stroking him. And even though Morse’s legs were beginning to tremble with the strain of being held upwards, he wrapped them tighter around Max, locking his ankles to dissuade him from pulling out.

Morse’s chest was heaving, and he was utterly spent, and yet he had never felt so alive, so real, looking into Max’s dark blue eyes against the August blue sky, lying limp in the sweet-smelling grass beneath Max, their bodies locked fast, fitted perfectly together.  

Max’s softening cock moved achingly warm and wet inside of him, and Morse clenched down around him, drawing a final quiet moan from Max’s throat. Then he threw his arms up and around him and kissed him, as if he would keep him there with him forever, while the world drifted by with the clouds, rolling and billowing over them. 

 He must have been swept up in some wave of late summer madness, because, at that moment, he didn’t care if all the world should see them there.

It was exhilarating, just such a surge of relief, to finally step out from under the shadows of all of their many lies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have another chapter up soon getting on with the mystery!


	9. Chapter 9

 

As they walked back to the house, a wind stirred through the high grass with a gentle sound that made all the world seem as if it had fallen into a hush, a sound that signified the end of a season, the turning of the world.

 

Max’s hand fell to take his, and even though there were drawing nearer to the house, Morse did not pull it away. Their joined hands served to even their pace all the more, so that Morse imagined that they might simply keep on walking, just as they were, on and on into some distant future.

It was a moment just like that passage from Milton, and, as the words tumbled through Morse’s head, he found himself saying them aloud.

 

“The world was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow, through Eden, took their solitary way.”

 

Max looked at him bemusedly, but, for once, said nothing. And Morse was glad. He wasn’t sure if he could bear it, if Max were to laugh, or to make one of his barbed remarks just then.

 

By the time they reached the house, though, Max seemed distracted. He was running late, it seemed, in returning to the inquest. Morse watched from the wide front steps as his black car disappeared down the long wind of the drive, wondering if things were not going well.

 

Because as Morse played the morning over in his mind, he realized that Max’s actions seemed to be akin to those of a man who had nothing left to lose. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all meant to be one final, long-awaited day out of the shadows and back into the sun, before they were parted, before Max had to say goodbye.

 ******

And, at dinner that night, Morse thought that it must be true.

Max was more short-tempered than ever, a fact made even more evident as he sat beside the ever placid and unflappable Jim Strange, who had been with Max and Dorothea all day at the courts, and had stopped in to dine.

"I had a very interesting conversation about you with Inspector Thursday. He thinks the world of you,” Dorothea said.

“It’s good to know he approves of  _someone_ in the household. He certainly isn't particularly enamored with me,” Max said.

 

Dorothea shot him a look of disapproval; perhaps things were not so terrible as they seemed, then, for her to feel he should not be so disheartened? 

 

She turned back to Morse, then. “The Inspector said you helped him a few times with that case, the one you were telling me about at the ball,” Dorothea said.

"I didn't do all that much,” Morse said. 

"That's not what he said. He said you went out to a house with him, helped him find where a dead man was hidden based on an opera aria that was playing."

"Blimey,” Strange said.

 

Max put down his fork, looking all the more cross. “I thought he was merely inquiring about an opera score,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me he had you out looking for a _corpse?_ ”

”It was just happenstance; we didn’t know what was there,” Morse said. He turned to Dorothea, then, and frowned.  "Is that on? Should he be telling you details of the case?"

Dorothea laughed. "You forget. I'm the press. I make my living by getting people to forfeit a bit of information now and then. " 

"It's what makes you such a charming conversationalist," Max intoned dryly.

Dorothea ignored him. "In fact, I have to thank you for your help as well. You gave me an idea for a piece I'm doing, exposing how shoddy some of our institutions really are, particularly in the care of the criminally insane. Remember that man I was talking about? Mason Gull? The man who killed his mother and the underbutler here at Manderly?”

 

Max looked up sharply at that. "What’s this? What in heaven's name are you saying?"

 

"It's true, Max. It must be twenty-five, thirty years ago now. The housekeeper's son. His name was Mason Gull. He killed his mother and her lover right here. At the piano in the dining hall of the servants' quarters. Took an axe to both their skulls." 

“Blimey," Strange said.

 

Poor Strange. Considering the rate at which Max and Dorothea conversed, he really was best sticking with that one word. 

 

"Father had to testify at the trial,” Dorothea said.

Max was looking horrified. “I have no memory of that,” he said. “None at all.”

"You wouldn't. You were awfully young. And it was too ghastly a story even for the gossips, I suppose. After Gull was taken away, the whole ugliness closed over, so to speak. I’ve been wondering about whatever became of him.”

”Of course you were,” Max said.

”So I called around a bit, and found that for years, he was institutionalized at Bellevue. I talked to one of the doctors, there, a Dr. Elias. He said that, as part of his therapy, Gull was given a notebook to help him to express himself, to order his thoughts. But, in the end, they had to take it away from him—he used it only to keep track of all the people who he felt had wronged him, all the nurses and members of staff who rubbed him the wrong way, and to record all the horrible, violent fantasies he had, detailing his plans for revenge.”

 

“Ah,” Max said. “You really are an enchanting dinner companion, Dorothea. In the space of a few days, we’ve gone from world war to coldblooded killers. Lovely.”

“It _is_ horrible,” Dorothea conceded. “But that’s just my point. Someone like that—you would think they would keep close tabs on him, wouldn’t you?”

”You mean they haven’t?” Morse asked. 

"No. The man was later shuffled from institution to institution so many times, no one seems to know _where_ he's currently housed, exactly." 

 

Morse felt as if all the blood was draining from his face. 

 

"Well, then where is he? Gull?” Morse asked.

“Really, Dorothea. Are these ghost stories really the thing at dinner? You’ll frighten Morse half to death.”

“I’m not _frightened_ ,” Morse said, contemptuously. “I just want to know, is all.”

But Dorothea was looking at him, her forehead furrowed in concern. “I shouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’s locked up, Morse. It’s just the paperwork is a frightful mess.”

 

But Morse felt a shiver along the back of his neck, a weight in the pit of his stomach.

Gull was a man driven by a need for revenge, and Dorothea had mentioned that her father had testified at his trial.

E...G....B....D

Evelyn, Grace, Ben .... Dorothea? Or simply DeBryn?

Morse wondered if it might be worth the risk of sounding like a crackpot, some sort of amateur sleuth, if he called Inspector Thursday and asked if any of the recent victims had any connection at all to Mason Gull’s trial.

 

But it made no sense: if Gull were here in Cornwall, prowling about the estate, wouldn’t _someone_ have seen him?

He scrubbed up the waves at the back of his nape, lost in thought ...

 

Then he looked up and realized everyone was staring at him.

”Are you.... are you all right, Morse?” Dorothea asked.

He smiled, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, and turned to his dinner.

”Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

 ************

The next morning dawned fresh and cool and blue, the first of September.

Morse waited impatiently for Max and Dorothea to leave. For once, he was glad they were going to the courts—there would be judges and magistrates and constables there and all sorts. Doubtless, it would be the safest place for them.

Because as much as Manderly had been a sanctuary to Morse, it had been a place of fear, too, a house of shadows. He had never entirely lost the sense that the place had eyes, that he was being watched.

 

If he was going to throw a rock into Manderly’s dark waters, if he was going to stir the silt, it was best he do so when Dorothea and Max were safely out of the way.

 

 He waited for the car to pass out of sight, off through the trees, and then he went to his office, picked up the phone, and dialed.

 

“St. Ives City Police,” a man intoned.

“Hello,” Morse said. “I’m calling for Inspector Thursday.”

"He's over at an inquest, in Kerrith," the man replied. 

 

Morse's heart fell—he had not thought of that. 

 

"Would you ask him to call me, please, when he gets in? This is Morse, over at Manderly." 

 

There was a tense pause. 

 

"If you are calling about the Rebecca DeBryn inquest, you had better come out to Kerrith at once. This is the last day of hearings, I believe, and if you have anything to add...”

"No," Morse said. "I don't . . . " 

 

He was about to say that he knew nothing about it, which of course, was not true. He knew more about it, he suspected, than nearly anyone else. 

 

"I've been here only a few months," he amended. "This is about another matter." 

"All right, then. What was your name, once more?" 

"Morse." 

"All right, I'll let him know." 

"Thank you," Morse said. 

 

He hung up the phone.

 

And in just a few seconds, it began to ring. Perhaps Thursday had been there after all, simply in another part of the office?

 

Morse picked up the receiver, his heart racing.

"Inspector Thursday?" he asked.

“Hello, Morse. How’s the man right fair fairing today, hmmmm?” 

 

It was that man. The man who had called him on his first morning at Manderly.

 

"If you won’t tell me who you are, I’ll go to the police about this," Morse said. 

"The police? But you just tried them, didn't you? They’re so awfully busy right now, aren’t they? And I suppose you are, too. Keeping things humming while Max is . . . detained. You’ve been an awful help to Max, haven’t you? You’ve been a real comfort to him, I’m sure.”

 

He laughed then, a laugh that was next door to a growl. 

 

“Are we back onto that poem again, then?” Morse asked, feigning indifference. 

 “What poem? Oh, do you mean 'Two loves have I of comfort and despair?' Why not? I called it right, didn’t I? Rebecca certainly played her part, as far as driving our Max to despair. And now, you’re playing yours. Very eagerly I must say.” He laughed again.  “I hope Max is paying you handsomely for all the overtime you’ve been putting in.”

 Morse slammed the phone down.

He felt contaminated, utterly sickened. What had the man seen to make him say such a thing? Save for yesterday morning, when they had gone out to the fields, he and Max had met only under the cover of darkness. 

 

The phone rang again. Morse started at it for a moment, torn between wanting to know who the awful man was, and not wanting to hear anymore of his vulgar insinuations and vile talk.

Finally, he picked up the receiver with a jerk.

"Morse," he snapped.

 "Mr. Morse? Is everything all right?"

 Morse felt himself go weak in the knees with relief. 

"Sorry, Mr. Bright. I was just... startled for a moment.”

"Outside call. From Miss DeBryn. Shall I put you through?" he continued crisply.

 "Yes. Yes, please." 

 

There was a clink.

 

“Morse? It’s Dorothea. It’s over,” she said tersely.

 

Morse’s heart jumped anew.  _What_ was over? What did she mean by _over_? Morse didn't know what to make of such a statement.

 

“There’s some paperwork left for Max; he’ll come up later, with Strange. But I’m coming up to the house now. I’ll tell you all about it, then,” she said.

Morse tried to steady his breathing; he felt as if he had been running.

 

“Well, what’s... what’s happened?" 

"It’s been ruled a suicide,” Dorothea said.

“ _Suicide_?” Morse asked, barely able to breathe the word.

“A doctor, from up in London, came down to testify yesterday. He said Rebecca had been to see him the morning before she died. She had thought that perhaps she was expecting a child. But she wasn’t. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Quite progressed. The doctor had given her a few weeks, at best.”

 

Morse wasn’t quite sure how one thing would have led to the other, but...

 

“And?”

“Well. Everyone who knew her couldn’t help but agree. She wasn’t the type to let life dictate to her—she liked to do things on her own terms. She must have taken the boat out during the squall and chosen the quicker exit, bashed those holes in the hull herself. Gone out on the sea, just as she had lived.”

 

Morse said nothing; he wasn’t sure how to begin even to answer.

 

“So. There’s the end to it. I’ll be up at the house in about a half an hour.”

”All right,” Morse said.

And he hung up the phone.

 

Morse stood, stunned. Because somehow, he understood.

 

The findings of the inquest weren’t true.

But they were true, too.

 

She had looked ill, Max had said. When he shoved her away, she had been surprisingly frail. 

 

It had been suicide. But she didn’t use the sea to end her life.

She had used Max.

 

It had all been calculated, her final act. She had taunted Max about their false marriage, about his loss of Manderly to her future heirs, flew at him with all of her considerable contempt, until he was goaded into action, until he struck out at her—in one fell swoop, she afforded herself a more painless end than the cancer would have given her and doomed Max to a life of guilt and secrets and torment and misery.

 

If she would not be happy, he would not be happy, either.

 

It was the worst sort of bitterness. Morse almost felt sorry for her. For all of her raging through life, for all of her boldness, it was clear she had never found love, or she would never have done such a thing.

He felt sorry, too, for Max.

 

It was true, that Morse had never known much love in his life. 

But no one had ever hated him so fiercely, either. 

 

What a terrible thing, it seemed, to be the focus of that sort of hate. 

 

Just then, the phone began to ring. Could it be that Miss DeBryn had forgotten something? Or could it be Inspector Thursday?

 

He put his hand on the receiver, hesitating as to whether or not to pick it up. Finally, he lifted it to his face.

 

"Morse.”

 “‘Wooing his purity with her false pride.’ She was proud enough, that’s certain, but still, one wonders if it’s quite fair.”

 

Morse felt his heart leap. It was that man again. What did he know?

 

”What do you mean?” Morse asked.

”What I mean is this: it doesn’t seem right that things should work out so nicely for Max. But, then again, maybe they won’t. Isn’t the poet left to lament when his fair angel joins his worser spirit in hell?”

”Is that a threat?” Morse shouted, jumping to his feet.

“Not a threat, Morse. It’s simply the way the poem ends.”

And, with that, the man hung up the phone.

 

Morse slowly sank back into his chair. The room had gone strangely airless.

 

It would not do to panic; he had to think, he had to keep a clear head.

It was odd; it could not be a coincidence that as soon as he had tried to call Thursday, as soon as the inquest was over, this man should make a reappearance. There had to be a connection to one or the other. Or both.

If only he could talk to Inspector Thursday.

 

Or, perhaps he didn't need to.

 

He had seen the evidence when he was in the station that day, hadn't he? He had seen it when he had sat working on that anagram at Thursday's desk.

Morse closed his eyes. He always had a good memory, especially for words ... all he had to do was to think back, to remember the papers and words and items that had been scattered across Inspector Thursday's desk. 

 

He took a deep breath, and, behind his closed eyes, the room darkened, and the wafting fragrance of lilacs from the garden outside the wide windows gave way to the richer scent of tobacco. 

 

The handkerchief with the D. The phrases from the musical score found with Ben Nimmo. 

 

“ _He’s_ _got_ _em_ _on_ _a_ _list_ _and_ _they’ll_ _none_ _of_ _them_ _be_ _missed_." 

 And Mason Gull had kept a list, a list in his notebook. 

 

Morse opened his eyes with a jolt. Then he closed them again.

There had been his Othello album, on Thursday’s desk, and photographs, and Morse’s own name had been there, too, right in the midst of it, on the list of the staff and laborers at Manderly.

Morse, Endeavour. 

And there had been other names as well. He could see the letters marching before him. 

The letters.

Could the clue be an anagram? An anagram like STORMS TREE LACE, the clue that had led them to find Debbie Snow at Restormel Castle?

 

Because one of the names on the list contained all of the letters that were also contained in the name Mason Gull.

 

The name belonged to a man, who, when Morse thought about it, had only ever spoken to him when he was alone. Who seemed utterly blameless, absolutely beyond suspicion. 

But was he what he appeared?

 

"Don't let Samuel fool you," Max had said. "He can speak quite intelligently when he wants to." 

 

Morse wrote the name on a back of an envelope.

 

SAMUEL LOSINGFER

 

Then he took out the letters

MASON GULL

 

leaving only the

EISFER

 

Morse paused.

One of the remaining letters was a letter I. 

 

_"I even have an eye that’s not mine. If you pluck it out, you might be able to see me clear."_

 

"I’m sure he’s locked up,” Dorothea had said.

But no, he wasn't.

Because when Morse shifted around the remaining letters, he was left with one combination that stood out from the rest:

 

MASON GULL IS FREE

 

He picked up the telephone and dialed for an outside line, but there was only dead silence on the other end.

He slammed it down and tried again; perhaps the house line, at least, was still working.

 

"Sir?” Mr. Bright said. 

There was an odd series of clicks, like the crackle of a damaged wire.

 

Morse stood up, knocking his chair behind him. “I need someone—George, perhaps—to drive into the village and send a message to Inspector Thursday. Tell him Morse needs to talk to him right away. It’s vitally important.”

 

And then there was a final click, and that line, too, went dead.

In the next instant, the room was awash with music, as his record player began to play, blaring from down the hall from the library, turned at full volume. 

 

It wasn't Othello this time. It was an aria from Tosca. 

Morse slammed the phone down and raced down the hall back to the library. He was done with it, he was finished with it. He would put an end to this reign of terror once and for all.

 

But as he ran down the hall, someone grabbed him by the arm and snapped him back, twisting his arm hard behind him and plastering a hand over his mouth.

And then the world went black. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Morse was lost in a dark wood, enveloped in a mist so heavy he could not see. He tried to reach his hands out to help himself along, to feel his way through the trees, but he couldn’t move them—they were entangled, as if in seaweed.

No, he wasn’t in a wood; he was in a winedark sea, swept far off the coast, bound in webs of green. He tried to call for help, but he could not speak. 

There was a voice, then, rolling over the crash of waves— quite calmly the man spoke, as if he was unaware of the dangerous current that threatened to pull Morse under.

 

“Morse? Wake up, Morse. Your audience awaits.”

 

Morse opened his eyes and blinked slowly. He was slouched in a corner of a small, stone room, with open-air windows—it was a room like one might find at the top of a high tower.

There was a man there, on the other side of the room; between the darkness of the shadows and the change in the man’s expression, Morse almost didn’t recognize him.

It was Samuel.

It was Mason Gull.

“It’s you!” Morse shouted, consciousness flooding back to him in one painful burst, as if someone had shone a torch directly into his eyes. “Gull! It’s been you all along!”

 

Morse struggled to rise to his feet, too late realizing that the seaweed of his nightmares had been ropes—binding fast his ankles and locking his hands behind him at the wrists.

 

“Oh, very good,” Gull crooned. “You’ve done the thing properly, haven’t you?”

The man drew nearer, until he was looming over him, far too close for Morse’s liking—and then he knelt, crouching beside him. Morse could almost feel the feverish heat wafting off of him, the sharp fug of his breath.

In an instant, the man’s face contorted and went blank and expressionless; the devious eyes emptied, and he was Samuel again.

“ _You’re not like the other one,”_ he said, in an affectedly simple voice.

Then he laughed and said, “Well, in a few minutes, you will be, I suppose. You’ll both be dead, so you _will_ share that trait in common.”

 

Morse’s heart leapt to his throat. Immediately, he began again to struggle against his bonds, the rope cutting into his skin.

“You!” he shouted, in his frustration and anger. “It was you! You the whole time! How? Why?”

“Oh,” Gull said, “It’s easy enough to go about unnoticed when everyone completely underestimates you, when everyone dismisses you out of hand. You should know all about that, I suppose. But you’re quite a bit cleverer than you appear to be, aren’t you? I _thought_ you would be the one to figure it out.”

“So, it was you with the records, with the napkins . . . .” Morse began.

 

But Gull clicked his tongue in disapproval.

 

“Now, now, I must give credit where credit is due. I may be next-door to a ghost, I may know how to travel through Manderly’s secret passages, through its very walls, but even _I_ can’t be everywhere. The records—that was me, yes. But the napkins—that was Danny. She had you pegged right from the beginning . . . just as I did.”

“Mrs. _Danvers_?” Morse asked.

It seemed too simple to be true—It had seemed ghostly, supernatural somehow, the way the embroidered Rs had followed him about the table.

“But . . . but how did she know where I would sit?” Morse asked.

And then, the answer came to him at once. “They all had Rs, on them, didn’t they? Except for Max’s place.”

 

Gull smiled and reached out to tousle his hair, and Morse lurched away, repulsed.

 

“Aren’t you a clever boy? Yes, they did indeed. Many a time I watched her put them out, from one of my vantage points. I suppose she wanted to remind you whose place it really was. She timed it well, I must say. On that day you came back with Inspector Thursday, it was pretty clear you were about to snap. She put only one out that day—it was just luck that you should happen to sit there. You were a sight to see, picking them all up and tossing them about.”

He laughed again. “I would have thanked her if I didn’t feel she was getting ahead of herself, driving you to the point of madness, to the point where I thought you might hurl yourself off the roof after that ball, before I was ready for my finale. But then, Mrs. Danvers learned from a master. She absolutely worshipped Rebecca.”

 

“She . . . she knew who you were, didn’t she?” Morse asked. “Rebecca? You said she had threatened to have you locked up, put in the asylum…”

“Did she know my true identity?” Gull asked. “No. She suspected, though, that I was not what I appeared. Cunning people always recognize one another. There are so few of us, really. Most of them are not worthy of too much notice. They’re only just so much .... prey.”

 

Morse recoiled from the word in disgust. Gull’s expression, the dead look in his eye, the way he spoke—it was as if some vital piece of him was missing, as if he was not entirely human.

 

“But she was,” Gull said.  

“Worthy of notice,” he added, as if to answer the confused expression on Morse’s face. “I used to go about in the night, hide in the shrubbery outside the cottage at the cove and watch her through the windows. I like to watch. People are so interesting, aren’t they? So odd. That’s why I have eyes everywhere.”

Gull considered him for a moment and continued, “I almost thought I might not need to get vengeance on the DeBryns—I thought Rebecca might do it for me. It would have been interesting, watching someone else at work.  But, in the end, she just couldn’t manage it. So, it’s left to me after all. Not too much of a surprise, really.”

 

Morse didn’t know what to say. The man was mad. There was no way to speak to him, no way to reach him.

The man loomed closer again, so that his face was inches from his.

 

“Now. You tell me. Why should Max go free when _I_ was locked up, hmmmm? _He_ should be the one locked up. Kills the thing that tormented him, frees himself from the ties that bound him, and what does he do? Goes about pacing the floors and wringing his hands about it. Pathetic. I’ll be doing him a favor, putting him out of his misery.”

 

Morse gasped and lurched forward, trying to kick out at the man.

“No!” Morse shouted. “No! Don’t you touch him! Don’t you touch him!”

 

“Oh, I won’t,” Gull crooned.  “There are ways of killing a man that can be accomplished from a safe distance. Oh, Max. Max and his memories. How will he feel when he has a new one to add to his grim little collection, hmmm? The memory of you hurtling of the West Tower to your gruesome death? You won’t be his ‘man right fair,’ I don’t suppose, once you’ve hit the pavement at his feet.”

 

That was his plan, then. That’s why he was playing . . .

 

“ _Tosca_ ,” Morse said, in wonderment.

It wasn’t until Gull laughed again that he realized that he had said the word out loud.

“Very good. You know . . . . you interest me. And precious few people on this earth _truly_ interest me. You might be worth keeping around. For a bit, anyway.”

 “You’re mad! You’re mad!” Morse shouted.

“What’s this?  Now that’s disappointing. I expected more from an Oxford man. Well then, get up.”

But Morse just looked at him, utterly dumbfounded.

“Come on then, Tosca,” Gull said. He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the rope tying his ankles, then grasped his elbow and pulled him upright. “On your feet.”

 

Morse struggled against him, but the man was solid, more powerfully built than he looked, and Morse found himself forced forward, half-pushed along as Gull went.

They emerged from an arched stone passageway and out into the bright daylight. Morse could see that he had been right; they had been in some sort of tower, and now they were emerging onto the roof.

 

Gull walked him straight to the ledge.

 

It was dizzying standing there, where stone met sky; with his hands bound behind his back, Morse felt precariously off-balance.

He looked down to see two black cars pulling up to the front of the house. 

In the first was George; he must have taken one of the house cars to Kerrith, to deliver Morse’s message to Thursday. The second car was Max’s, and, as soon as it pulled up behind the first, Max and Thursday sprang out.

Dorothea hurried down the wide stone steps to greet them.

 “Have you seen Morse?” Morse heard her call.

 

“I have!” Gull shouted. 

 

The four of them —Max, Thursday, Dorothea and George, at once turned and looked up to the rooftop, in the direction of the sound.

“Ah, Carvaradossi and Scarpia, both together. Right on cue. How convenient,” Gull called.

 

Gull shoved Morse closer to the edge, and he gasped in surprise. He felt for a moment that he might totter completely over, right then and there, that his startled gasp might be the very last breath he took, but then, Gull snapped him back, holding him by his bound wrists, so that his head whipped back like a doll’s and, for a moment, all he could see was the sky.

 

He shuddered, his heart racing as he caught his breath, and then he looked back down to the courtyard below. Even from the great height at which Morse stood, he could see Max’s face going white.

 

“What is it that you want?” Max asked, sharply. “Money? I can take you to the house safe, right now.”

“You posh people are all the same. It always goes right back to money, doesn’t it Max? Well, I’m here for something money can’t buy,” Gull sneered.

“What then? What is it that you want?” Max asked.

“I want to see what your face looks like when Morse goes flying off this roof. Will you feel anything, once he’s dead? People are so interesting. I didn’t feel anything much when I killed my mother. I thought I might. But . . . . ”  

He shrugged, then, as if the matter was of little interest to him.  “The only thing I felt was relief, at having been made free of her. She was a terrible disappointment all around.”

“But you, Max,” he continued, “I’ve been watching you. You’ve been an interesting case. If you’ve inflected yourself with such misery over someone who hated you, what will you do when your beloved Tosca lies as just another corpse at your feet, hmmm?”

 

Morse’s heart was drumming hard under his ribs, as his fear of what Gull might _do_ became eclipsed by his greater fear of what Gull might _say_.

Gull was getting so near, so near to so many things that Morse did not want him to say in front of Inspector Thursday. About Max and Rebecca. About Max and him.

 

Was he going to survive this, only to see Max arrested for either murder or gross indecency?

 

For a mad moment, Morse was filled with a sense of blind panic—anything, anything at all, seemed preferable to standing there, feeling the man’s foul breath on his nape, listening to him spew out all of their most careful secrets, waiting for him to say the words that would clearly condemn Max. 

 

“After all, Max, you and I are more alike than one might suppose, aren’t we?” Gull mused. “We are part of a small but elite group who had the sense to . . .”

 

He _was_ . . . he was going to say it. Morse could no longer bear to stand waiting for it; he lurched forward, pulling his arm away, trying to break free. At that moment, Morse felt it would be better simply to leap and have done with it than to stand in the loathsome man’s grip a moment longer.

 

“Morse!” 

 

Max, Thursday and Dorothea all shouted his name at once, but Morse didn’t care, he was beyond caring. He struggled with his captor, longing to break free, to get his damp and clammy hands the hell off of him.

 

“Morse! Stop it! Don’t!” Max called.

 

Morse froze and looked down to him. Max’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, his round face bearing that expression that led Morse sometimes to believe that he might be younger than he thought.

 

Thursday was waving one hand in a steadying, downward motion, as if encouraging him to remain calm.

“Easy there, lad,” he said. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

 

It was then Morse noticed that, in all the tumult, George had gone back into the house. Could he and Mr. Bright get the phones working, call for more police officers to come out to ambush the man?

 

Morse forced himself to go still.

 

“Well. That was certainly interesting,” Gull purred.

 

 “Losinger,” Max said, trying to master his voice now, trying to speak more firmly. “What is it that you want, exactly? There must be something you’re after.”

“What I _want_ ,” Gull mused. “What I _want_ , first off, is for you to get my name right. How will my masterpiece be remembered, if I’m still working under my pseudonym, hmmmm?”

 

“You’re Gull,” Dorothea said simply. “You’re Mason Gull.”

 

“Ah. I thought you might remember me,” Gull said. “Such a curious thing you were. You were my original starlet, I must admit, Dorothea. I liked the harmony of using all Christian names for my little treble clef.” 

“ _Treble_ _clef_?” Thursday asked. “It’s like Morse said, then. E, G, B, D. Is that it?”

“Oh, did you get that, too, Morse?” Gull said. 

He was beginning to enjoy himself, being in the spotlight, calling out to them in a theatrical voice.

“Finally, someone who appreciates me. That’s right. Evelyn Tate and Ben Nimmo were both at Manderly on the day I killed my mother. Evelyn’s mother was a housemaid, and Nimmo was here making a delivery. Both testified against me. Grace Madison was the sister of the judge who put me away. E, G, B and now D. It was to be D for Dorothea. I hope there are no hard feelings, my dear, as to your being upstaged. But D for DeBryn will do just as well. Fitting, too, that his name should deviate slightly from the pattern, as his manner of death will deviate as well. It will be a longer and slower demise for Max than even that of old Ben Nimmo, I’m afraid, once he’s robbed of his comfort, and left only with his despair.”

 

Thursday and Dorothea turned to one another and exchanged a quick and undecipherable glance.

Max, meanwhile, remained where he was, his face turned upwards, as stone still as if he had forgotten to breathe.

 

“Well, I must say that I am a little offended,” Dorothea called. “By the clumsiness of the whole thing. It was _my_ father who testified at your trial. Morse wasn’t even yet born, when you were sent away. Seems rather sloppy, doesn’t it?”

 

Morse could hardly process what she was saying. Had she gone mad? What was she playing at, trying to make any sense at all out of Gull’s diatribes?

 

“I told you,” Gull said. “It’s not simply vengeance that interests me anymore. But a grand finale that explores the very depths of human nature. Besides, it all works out better this way. By sparing you, I allow you to be my Schindler, my Greisinger.  Every great artist needs a biographer. Think of how many papers this story will sell, yes?”

 

Dorothea shrugged. “I’m not so sure. All the serial killers I’ve ever heard of, the ones who have gone down in history, have followed some sort of pattern, had a certain signature. If you are going to break yours mid-way—Where’s the sense in that?  You said were following the notes of the treble clef? If, so, what do you want Morse for? His name begins with an M. Your ‘experiment’ may target Max, but Morse would still go down in the papers as the victim.”

 

Dorothea turned her face, then, so that she was looking over to him. “Morse? What’s your Christian name?”

 

What? Was she was asking this _now_?

 

And, then, Morse realized that Inspector Thursday had disappeared.

 

“Morse? You never said. What is it? Does it, by any chance, begin with a D?" Dorothea called.

 

And even to help her in her attempt at a diversion, he couldn’t say it: it was too painful to think that his name would be amongst his last words.

 

Gull just laughed. “You’ve proved my point exactly, Dorothea, my dear. Even you don’t know his name. He’ll be merely a footnote. It’s his  . . .   _association,_ shallwe say _,_ with Max, that will be seized upon and ripped apart by the papers. All eyes are always on Manderly, aren’t they, Max? It will be his name that will be remembered. His death —his slow, dissipated, scandalous, wasting death—that will hit the headlines.”

 

Morse heard them, then—the quiet footsteps behind him.

And perhaps he should have simply told Dorothea his name, tried harder to help to keep Gull preoccupied, because it was clear that Gull heard them, too.

 

Gull spun Morse around, so that he was facing Inspector Thursday, holding him still precariously at the edge of the rooftop, as if threatening to throw him over if Thursday drew nearer.

 

 “Ah. Enter Scarpia,” Gull said.

“Scarpia?” Morse mused.  And then, he added, as if he should have known it all along, “F. F for Fred. Fred Thursday.”

 “That’s it! Right again, Morse," Gull said. "You’ve been keeping pace. You know, I think I might have an even more interesting plot line for you, after all. It would be a wasted opportunity, simply throwing you from the roof, when there are so many other scenes we might play out.”

 

Gull turned, then, to Thursday. “I’ve nothing against you personally, of course. You simply stand in place of the detective inspector whose lies put me away. Foxley. It should have been him up here with me today. But he died when I was . . . away.”

“Another stand-in, then. Morse for DeBryn, me for Foxley, Evelyn Balfour for her mother. Your plan is as full of holes as the plot of a penny dreadful,” Thursday said, in a bored rumble. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There's a symmetry to it. And five’s a good number, don’t you think? Nice and simple. Count ’em on one hand?”

Thursday looked infinitely unimpressed. “If you’re going to keep this up, I wouldn’t mind a draw on my pipe, if it’s all the same.”

“In lieu of a hearty breakfast. By all means,” Gull said, with a gallant little bow.

 

Thursday reached into his coat pocket and took out his pipe. He took his time as he filled it and lit it, and then threw the match away with the careless wave of one hand.

“Oh, I’ve looked into the eyes of worse than you,” Thursday said, his sharp eyes dark and considering. “People who’ve committed real atrocities. And they were sane. Next to them, you’re nothing but a third-rate freak show. A bearded lady with glue running down her chin.”

 

Well, the inspector certainly had a way with words. Morse felt himself huff a laugh, despite himself.

 

Anger flared across Gull’s face, then, and he strengthened his hold on Morse’s bound wrists and gave him a shake, so that one of his feet slipped halfway off of the ledge. He pulled him upright, then, and looked darkly from him to the Inspector.

 “I know what game you are playing,” he said. “You won’t goad me into recklessness, Thursday. I’m serene.”

 

That might be true; Gull certainly was calm enough.  But Thursday seemed all the more so. As soon as Thursday had stepped out onto the roof, Morse had felt a stir of hope in his heart, as if the balance of power had somehow shifted.

 

And then, Morse’s heart fell, as Max, too, stepped out onto the roof, followed by Dorothea, who was evidently trying to reign him in. Why had he come up here? Why? It seemed to Morse as if he was merely making himself an easier target.

And indeed, Gull seemed pleased by his appearance.

 

“Ah. Cavaradossi. Now we’ve set the scene. My grand finale.”

 

It was as if they had come full circle; all five of them were on the roof now, but it was still the same standoff. Max and Dorothea and Thursday were all so near, but none of them dared to move, so closely was Gull holding Morse to the ledge of the rooftop. It was as if a breath of wind might tip the balance.

 

And then, Gull pulled out a gun.

 

Morse groaned. It was impossible, an impossible situation. How could the four of them hope to make it through this alive? 

 

Gull looked to Dorothea. “You’ll see the folly of your words now. This will be quite the production. Look sharp, now, and you’ll have an exclusive. And you’ll see. I’ll be remembered.”

Dorothea shrugged. “A year or two. Maybe five. When it comes to the annals of crime, you’re nothing but a footnote.”

Gull sneered and cocked the trigger, aiming at the three where they stood, while keeping one hand firm on Morse’s bound wrists.

 

“Here’s where you’re wrong. Behold. The final two acts of Tosca. First, for Act Two. The death of Scarpia—the corrupt and venial Chief of Police—at Tosca’s hand.”

 

Act Two? Morse had thought it was Act Three he had in mind.

 

“But wait,” Morse heard himself say. “You said I’m Tosca.”

 

“That’s right,” Gull said.

Gull released his grip on him, then. The sudden absence of his weight pulling against him sent Morse off-balance, and for a moment, he again felt as if he might sway over the edge. He was just righting himself, when Gull pulled a knife from his pocket and cut his bonds.   

And it was his chance, his chance to strike out, to do something. But instead, Morse felt dazed—the world went white for a moment as a sheering pain shot up through his shoulders. Before he had his bearings, Gull was already striding away, still holding the gun directly at the three on the other side of rooftop.

Gull marched straight to Max, until he was just behind him, pressing the gun to his temple.

 

And then, with his other hand, Gull tossed the knife to Morse, so that it landed with a clatter at Morse’s feet.

 

“So. Tosca. Here’s your chance. Or, should I say, here is your choice?  Kill Scarpia, and you have the chance to save Cavaradossi from the firing squad.”

 

Morse could only stare at the man, utterly dumfounded. Surely, he couldn't be suggesting . . . that he kill Thursday to save Max...

”What?” Morse asked.

 

“Go on. You know the story. Now’s the chance to rewrite it. Kill Scarpia now, and you just might be on time to save your Cavaradossi. You’ll see. There’s nothing to it.”

 

Morse felt oddly lightheaded, as if he could imagine that he was hallucinating. The minutes churned from one madness to another.

 

“You can do it," Gull crooned. "Go, on. We’re the same, you and me. We bear the same burden. Intelligence. To be clever is to be alone. Forever. I see it in you.”

 

"You don't see anything in me," Morse said. “You don’t see anything at all.”

 

“Pick it up, Morse.”

Gull dug the barrel of the gun harder against Max’s temple, as his face twisted in anger.

 

 “I said _pick it up_ ,” he snarled.

 

Morse picked up the knife and walked uncertainly forward, halfway across the rooftop. What could he do? Could he launch himself on Gull without Gull pulling the trigger? 

 

Morse’s hand on the knife was shaking. Thursday’s face was so impassive, he couldn’t read any direction there. Perhaps there was none. Perhaps Morse was alone, helpless; he certainly had no idea as to what to do next.

“This is your second plot change now,” Morse cried. “You’re mad!”

 

“Back on that are we? You only think so because you haven’t learned yet that there is nothing to it. You'll see. You'll understand.  Now do as I say. I'm the Puccini here."

 

And he was right. He was the writer. The gun in his hand rendered the rest of them mere actors, puppets, even, in his deranged production. 

 

It was all about control. His control, his power over them. 

Morse had to do something, something unpredictable, to break his spell. 

And then it came to him. Gull was a man who saw himself as the center of the world, who saw all others as prey. He would never expect such a move.

Morse would at once refuse to make the man’s terrible choice and refuse to play his game altogether. He would assert his own will.

He would deny the man his prey.

 

"Go on, Morse," Gull said. "I've written you your script. Now _follow_ it." 

 

Morse lifted his chin and looked at the man. Thursday was right. He was not so _very_ formidable. He was a hairsbreadth from coming completely undone.

 

“Not if I rewrite it,” Morse said.

“Then you had better be quick,” Gull said, raising his eyebrows to Max, as if to say his time was running out.

 

Morse dropped the knife with a clatter, spun on his heel, and turned back toward the ledge, bolting toward it with long strides. He heard Max shout his name behind him, but there was one sound in particular he was listening for. 

 

“No!” Gull shouted.

And there was a thunder of footsteps and then a hand, one with a familiar clamminess that Morse could feel through his shirt, tightening around his arm.

As soon as Morse felt Gull take hold of him, he turned on him and leaped, knocking the man backward. Morse grabbed Gull’s arms, then, desperately trying to hold the larger man down.

Gull shot the gun into the air and pushed up, twisting Morse’s wrists, forcing him to release his grip. But then, there were a pair of broader, harder hands there, too, helping him, seizing Gull roughly by the shoulders.

 

“Morse!” Thursday boomed, and Morse understood at once that he should get the hell out of the way. 

Morse scrambled to the side, just as Thursday tore the gun from Gull’s hand and flung it away. He flipped Gull over and snapped a set of handcuffs on him, binding his arms behind his back.

 

Gull struggled against the handcuffs, seemingly shocked at the sudden change of events. Morse was breathing hard with panic and exertion, and he looked up to meet Thursday's eyes, but Thursday was merely checking his pockets. 

 

“Ah, bugger it," he said. "I broke my pipe." 

 

“Oh, bad luck," Max said. 

 

At the words, Morse turned and looked up at once. Max may have already set his face back into his typical nonplussed expression, but that didn't fool Morse. Not entirely. Morse was sure he could see the wonderment in his eyes. And perhaps even . . . perhaps even a little pride, too. 

 

Thursday hustled Gull to his feet amidst a wail of sirens. Mr. Bright and George must have gotten the phones working again, must have been able to call for backup for Thursday. 

The party descended a flight of stone steps and then went out into the courtyard to wait for them. 

 

****************

After he tucked Gull into the backseat of one of the cars, Thursday turned to him.

"You know. You wouldn't make for a bad detective. Ever think about it? A career change? The era of these great houses is fading, you know. You're young yet, to tie yourself down as a land agent." 

Morse frowned, considering. It had been interesting, working with Thursday, going down to the station— but then there was also Ben Nimmo, entombed in the walls of his own basement, and Gull's madness on the rooftop. 

"How do you do it?" Morse asked. 

Thursday raised his eyebrows. It _was_ a broad question. 

"I mean.... How do you leave all of the terrible things you see behind you? How do you not let it all get to you?”

Thursday nodded grimly, as if he understood.

"Find something worth defending. And hold onto it, no matter what comes. And then remember, there’s always something that the darkness can’t take away."

 

Morse mulled over the wisdom of those words. Once, just a few months ago, he might not have known what Thursday meant.

Now, he thought that perhaps he did.

 

Just then, yet another car pulled up. Strange emerged from the driver’s seat, looking pale and grim. 

But that was odd; why should he appear so stunned?  He hadn't yet heard what had happened, had he?

 

"I just came in from Kerrith. It's all over the wireless,” he said. “The Nazis have just invaded Poland. It looks as if this is it. It looks as if we're going to war. "

 

And in that instant, Max turned and looked at him, with a face full of regret, like a silent goodbye.

 

They had been racing the clock all along, his expression seemed to say, but time and the world were always ahead of them.

 

And now their time had run out.

 

But Thursday had said to find the thing worth defending and to hold onto it.

What else did Morse have to hold on to, if not his love for Max?

A war might part them, but surely a war could not last forever.

They would find a way back to one another again.

 

But from the way Max was looking at him, perhaps it was not to be so. Max did seem to know an awful lot about the workings of the world.

 

Well, then, perhaps they would not have forever.

But as it was, it wasn’t as if he would be sent away tomorrow. They’d have a few days—perhaps even a few weeks. They would have to make them stand in for a lifetime.

It wasn’t everthing, but it would have to be enough. It was more than he had ever expected. It was more than he thought he ever had the right to hope for.

He tried to answer Max’s downcast gaze with a smile, one that said all of those things.

 

 _Let’s be grateful for what we have and leave off with all the rest_.

 

But Max must have misunderstood—because why else should he look all the more stricken? Why should he look almost as if he was sorry for him, when his best hope at happiness—no matter how short-lived—lay shimmering in front of him?

 

 

****epilogue****

Manderly, 1945 

(six years later)

 

It was only four in the afternoon, but Max felt already as if he was done with the day. It had been hectic; the medics packing up the last of the equipment, the last of the soldiers packing their bags, reverting Manderly from a soldiers’ convalescent home to a great country house once more.

Slowly, limping slightly from where his knee still sometimes pained him, Max climbed the stairs and lay down on top of his large, four-poster bed, listening to the utter silence of place—of a Manderly  more empty and still, more full of hush and the whispers of ghosts, than it had ever been in his remembrance. 

 

It seemed an age since that day that Jim Strange has pulled up into the drive and announced the beginning of the war.

 

Since then, so much in the world had changed, so much that it felt sometimes as if time had moved on without him, leaving Max to feel as if he was not much more than a ghost himself.

 

Dorothea has been right, of course—Morse, at nineteen, was among the first to go. He had his letter by the end of the week, giving Max just long enough to fully realize his folly.

Of course, fate would separate them. They were mismatched from the start.

Lying here, in the same bed where Morse had once come to him during those few weeks in the summer of 1939, made it all too easy to remember just how peacefully he had slept in his arms on the night before he had left for basic training.

Max had laid awake considering him: his gently closed eyes, his breathing, deep and even. He was awfully young—too young. It seemed to Max that it would be impossible for an older man to sleep so soundly on the eve before heading off to war.

Morse, Max feared, was unprepared for a world at war,  was blissfully unaware as to what lay ahead of him.

 

  
Or was it that, for Morse, such a turn of events was not much out of the common way? He had lived his life as a windblown leaf, carried by where the wind willed it, without ever a place to stop and rest.

It could be that Morse simply didn’t expect anything more.

The thought made Max irrevocably sad, and he kissed Morse lightly on the forehead, wishing to seal him with what blessings he could.

 

Early the next morning, they stood in the crowded train station, saying their unsatisfactory goodbyes, as crowds of soldiers in uniforms crisp and fresh, tearful mothers and sweethearts, and stoic fathers jostled past them.

It had been a mistake for Max to have come; he could see that. He should have said his goodbyes behind closed doors. What could he say to Morse here, in front of a quarter of the village, in a sunlit train station?

 

“Well,” said Morse, clutching his hat in his hands. “Thanks, awfully. I’m sorry to have to be leaving like this, now that I’ve just gotten the hang of things. I expect it will be difficult to find a replacement, what with so many going.”

 

Max didn’t know what to say. All the things he wanted to say, he couldn’t.

 

_I’ll never find a replacement._

_Please come back to me, when this is over._

A _nd if you don’t want to come back, please don’t judge me too harshly, when you are older and know better._

 

“Oh, did you know?” Morse was saying. “I should have asked you earlier. I left my record player and books and all up at the house. I can’t really take them with me, and I don’t have anywhere else to keep them. Is that all right?”

“Of course, it’s alright,” Max said. “They’ll be waiting for you safe and sound when you come back.”

 

_Please come back to me._

 

The train let out a screech, a piercing whistle that might rip the sky to September blue shreds, that might tear Max’s heart to breaking.

 

“I suppose I . . . I best be going, I suppose,” Morse said.

”Yes,” Max said. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll write,” Morse said. “As soon as I know . . . well . . . where I’m going,” he added uncertainly.

”Please. Do.  I would love to hear from you,” Max said.

 

What would he have given to have been able to stand on the crowded platform and drop four words from that sentence?

_I love you._

 

“Goodbye, Max,” Morse nodded, just as an assistant agent might to his employer, and then he turned to join the others, loading onto the train. He disappeared, then, into a sea of khaki uniforms, and he didn’t look back.

 

Max turned and walked back to the head of the train, back to the station’s car park. He had told himself that Morse had the right idea, that he wouldn’t do it, but, somehow, he couldn’t resist.

He stood and watched the train as it passed, yearning for one last glimpse of Morse. But how to find him? All the young men in their spanking new uniforms looked so much the same, already so much standard issue.

But then, he was sure he saw it—a blur of movement, as one of the soldiers turned to glance out the window, and a flash of breathtaking blue, a blue that could only be the blue of Morse’s startling blue eyes.

Later, he thought it was a mistake to have lingered.  It might have been Morse, or it might not have been.

All Max had done was to render uncertain even the timing of their last goodbye.

 

 

Max returned to Manderly, knowing Morse’s departure would be only the first. Fancy was slotted to leave at end of the next week, Strange at the end of the month.  

 

It seemed hardly fair that life should condemn him, even in this, to the sidelines; at thirty-one, he was hardly decrepit. But the army had concluded that he would not be needed, owing to his poor eyesight.

How apropos, he thought. He never did see things clearly. Not until it was far too late.

 

Once he got back from seeing Morse off, he went back to the house, up into the west wing, to rooms he had not inhabited for more than a year, rooms still filled with the shadow of Rebecca.

Despite all, it still came as a shock, the realization of just how much she had hated him.

Looking back, he could understand what she had been thinking: she knew, she knew she was dying. It killed her to know that her life would end, and that his might have the chance to begin again.

If her chance at life was done, she would make certain that she took him down with her.

But why? What was the point of such hate? She knew all too well he had nothing, was doomed always to have nothing.

 

He hadn’t seen it, when they first married. It seemed like a bargain as good as any other.

Until he had learned the truth about her.

It was no matter to him, how voracious  her appetites ran. He was hardly jealous.

But it was appalling, her game of  conquering hearts just for the sheer animal pleasure of crushing them into the dust. If she had cared for just one—just one— of the men who so readily pursued her, Max would have been able to bear it. But she wanted all—not just one night of passion, but love, just so she might feel the thrill, the surge of power, found in throwing it aside.

It was painful beyond bearing, that love, real love—not anonymous meetings in darkened rooms—should be denied to Max, while Rebecca plowed through heart after heart, soul after soul.

 

He wandered about the cold bedroom, with its gold embroidered pillows piled high on the bed, and came to stop at the dressing table. He could almost imagine her there, flushed with excitement after a party.

“Hair drill, Danny,” she would say, and Mrs. Danvers would brush out her long dark hair, while the two women laughed together as Rebecca related her triumphs.

”You have to wait until they sit worshipping you at your feet—and then comes the knife,” Rebecca said.

 

She threw away what Max most longed to hold—and Max had hated her for it.

 

But he never meant to ... never would have killed her.

On that night when Dorothea had prattled on about serial killers at dinner, while all the while Morse’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, Max had felt himself growing as cold as a stone.

His poor Morse. He was so horrified, and yet so without guile, that he seemed not to understand that he had placed all of his considerable trust in someone who was really not so much better.

 

Max turned to watch the sea, crashing wildly outside the high windows.

 

Once he thought of Morse, he could no longer stand to be in a place where his heart had once known such darkness. He left the bedroom overlooking the sea, and closed the wide doors leading to the west wing behind him.

 

But it was no great respite. Because the house was filled, too, with the ghosts of Morse—a more benevolent spirit, surely, but one that hurt his heart all the more.

It was impossible to walk down the hallway to his bedroom without imagining Morse there, walking in the darkness—Perhaps with a look cast over his shoulder? Perhaps thrilled with his own daring?—as he approached Max’s door.

  
And then, days later, in the Morning Room, Max noticed that Morse had pulled a bookshelf in front of the door behind the tapestry, the door to one of the secret passages that he and Dorothea used to play in as children.

Had something been troubling him, that he should have done that? Was he frightened? Had he suspected that Gull had been in the house for some time? Had he been unhappy, anxious staying at Manderly all along?

 

Why didn’t you tell me? he wanted to ask. But, of course, it was too late.

 

Or perhaps it wasn’t. A war could not last forever. He had found love when he had given up on finding it, hiding in forgotten corner of the lobby of the Monte Carlo Grand Hotel. It wasn’t impossible that he should find him again.

And Morse had promised to write, after all.

 

But week after long week passed, and no letter came.

 

Max found himself idly poring through Morse’s books, trying to see what words he might have underlined, what passages struck him.

Suddenly, he realized that all he had known of Morse was perhaps all he would ever know, and he was keen to fill in that blurred and transient image, to keep his memory from fading.

 

And then, one morning, he came down to the dining room, and there they were, in the morning post—a small stack of letters tied in a brown string. He recognized the handwriting even before he read the name on the return address:

_E. Morse_

They must have been held up somewhere, in the confusion of the wartime post, and were delivered all at once.

Max took the bundle out to the fields, away from the eyes of the servants, lest someone read the besotted happiness in his face.

And besides, he didn’t want to read them as Mr. DeBryn, master of Manderly. But as Max, someone who, amazingly enough, had loved, too, much like anyone else, if only for an hour.

 

He was tempted to rip the first open and start reading, but he forced himself to look at the postmarks, to put them in chronological order. The postmarks moved steadily southward, it seemed, and then settled in North Africa.

Max opened the first letter and then the next, trying to glean from them every nuance, every potential hidden meaning that he could.

The letters said none of the things that Max had hoped to hear; how could they? Even if Morse had wanted to say them, such words would be impossible in letters reviewed by the censorship board. As it was, stretches of sentences were marked out in black.

 

He talked much like a soldier, now—about his boots and about the endless drills. But every now and then, a glimmer of the Morse he had loved shone through the matter-of-fact prose.

 

_A few of us were allowed to go into (word blacked out) and there were some street musicians there. They were really quite good. It was all rather ripping._

 

And Max could not help but smile.

 

As the letters went on, however, even that spark of Morse seemed to fade, at the same rate that the blacked out stretches decreased. Morse was becoming more savvy, then, learning how to play the game, learning what he could and could not say.

Max wasn’t sure if he was relieved or saddened by the thought.

 

At that point, the letters might have been written by anyone. Until the last.

 

_Why don’t you answer any of my letters, Max?_

 

And Max’s vision blurred. He could scarcely read the rest.

 

I would have, I would have done, he wanted to say. If only I knew where to send them, I would have sent you one for every hour, since that train trundled you away from me.

 

The last words of Morse’s final letter seemed to dance out at him amidst the blur.

 

_Yours,_

_Endeavour_

 

It was as if Morse was casting back to that argument they had had, when Max had begun to realize that he had nothing to offer him, that if he had truly loved him, he would let him go.

 

_“Endeavour...” Max said._

“ _No,” Morse said. “Don’t call me that. I never, ever said you could call me that.”_

 

It felt as if, now, he was taking those words back again.

 

Max went back to the house. He couldn’t write a letter. What would he say? Three paragraphs, as befitting a former employer? Filled with anything but the words he most longed to say?

Such a thought was unimaginable.

He would have to do something. 

He would have to find him.

One way or the other.

 

**** 

The next time Dorothea came down from Oxford, he told her.

“If the army doesn’t want me for a soldier, I’ll go as a medic,” he said. “I’m finishing my training next week.”

Dorothea looked at him a little sadly. “You might get sent to an entirely different theater, Max,” she said. “You know it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea as to what you mean. Why shouldn’t I do my bit, same as anyone else?” Max snapped.

Dorothea just gave him a regretful, sphinx-like smile that infuriated him all the more.  

 

 ***

More difficult than talking to Dorothea was letting the tenants know of his impending absence. The look of gratitude in the eyes of the women, the elderly, of those left behind, was difficult to take. To them, he was the master at Manderly, giving up his life of luxury to save their husbands, their sons.

And of course, he would try. He would save them all if he could. But it was not for any of them that he was going. Not really.

He knew in his heart there was only one soldier he was going for. 

 

In a few weeks, he was off.

To France.

But still, it was a movement southwards, a movement in the right direction.

It was a gamble to be sure: previously, he and Morse had been just like the compass in that poem by Donne—Max had been the fixed point, drawing Morse, the moving point, full circle, bringing him home.

Now, they would both be moving points, rambling across the globe, their lines of communication severed.

 ***

Over the next two years, Max was awarded honor after honor for his bravery—clanging medals he scarcely felt he deserved.

The only thing that gave him the courage to go out amidst the shelling to collect the wounded was, in essence, an elaborate fiction: in his mind, they all were Morse, any of them might be Morse.

Any one of them might open their eyes to reveal that flash of blue that had drifted away from him so long ago. 

No. It was no abstract courage that had spurred him on. It was the thought that the body lying prone amidst the mud might be his Morse.

 

Or, even if they weren’t, they were somebody’s Morse, surely.

Who knew who might be waiting at home, spared the life of loneliness that Max knew all too well, because he, Max, was in the right place at the right time?

It was all the he could give, the only thing he could do. 

 

And then, came the day when he was perhaps a bit too reckless.

He had wandered a bit too far behind enemy lines, when he felt a sting and then a burn in his left knee, and his leg collapsed beneath him.

 

Within two weeks, he was shipped home, to an empty house full of memories, where no letters waited. 

 

And then, there was nothing else for it, but to sit and wait for the war to end. 

 

It was Dr. Tallwood who first gave him the idea. The hospital at Kerrith was overcrowded, men were being sent home early—others from the county were being kept in London, unable to be near their families. Might he consider allowing Manderly to be used as a convalescent home? 

Max assented at once. What better way to drive the ghosts of the past from the place by filling it with new life and fresh starts? With the loud shouts of recovering soldiers, practicing walking on their crutches in the garden, playing cards or interminable games of ping pong?

The west wing was completed converted, filled with wards of beds. Their old room—his and Rebecca's—was made into a recreation room, with game tables and chairs along the windows, overlooking the sea.  

 

Soon, Manderly was bursting with activity. Mothers from the village, sweethearts and sisters, all came to visit, bringing gifts from home. It was as if the house was given a new life, as a place of hope, of recovery, as a place to heal old wounds and to try to rebuild the future. 

To top all, he was able to discharge Mrs. Danvers at last. What good were all of her threats and blackmail now? Max was the hero of the county. He had gone to war to save its sons, and now he had given his home so that they might recover near to those who loved them.  

She was free to spread rumors as she liked, to cast her accusations. Who would want to hear them? Even the mayor’s son, Alastair Aldridge, and the Chief Inspector’s son, Sam Thursday, had spent time recovering at Manderly, safe at home where their mothers and sweethearts could easily dote on them. If she were to make good on her threats now, the mood of the county would certainly be against her.

 

It was a capital idea, all around— just the balm Max's soul needed.

Although Max did have one battle with Dr. Tallwood—over the piano. Max had covered the thing, unable to bear the thought of a hoard of strangers sitting where Morse had once sat, his red-gold tawny hair bent over the keys as he played, putting all of the things that he did not know how to say into his music, music that Max sometimes felt—as he listened from his study—was meant especially for him.

 

But music raises men’s sprits, the doctor said. And so Max had been forced to listen to the instrument that Morse had once made to sing sent clanging to the tunes of swing numbers and barroom ditties. 

 

Two weddings were held in the gardens, between recovering soldiers and nurses who had met at Manderly and who had asked Max if they might hold their ceremonies there.

And what better way, what better magic than the love of young couples, the happiness of their guests, to drive out the final ghosts of Rebecca?  Loves so dearly bought and dearly held seemed to cancel out somehow the ghost of the woman he once knew, who had collected hearts like trophies, just for the pleasure of throwing them away. 

 

The first wedding was held in the formal gardens in front of the house; the second, in the rose garden, in the shadow of Morse’s window. Max sat in a seat of honor, but, instead of watching the couple, his eyes could not help but be drawn to the pane of glass where Morse had once stood. He imagined him there, looking out of the window for the first time, wondering how his new life might unfold.

 

Max felt a lump in his throat. It hadn't unfolded well at all, had it? Perhaps there was a time when Morse thought he would have been better off sailing away to New York with the tyrannical Mrs. Van Hopper, than involving himself in all the secrets of Manderly. It was certain he must have known a great deal of unhappiness here. Max thought of the shelf pulled in front of the secret passage, and his heart clenched.

 It was like a sharp pain right under his ribs, to realize that, that, now, he finally had a home worthy of Morse, a home where Morse might be happy.

And he knew not where in the world that he was. He could not ask him for a second chance.

 

“Do you want me to try to find him?” Dorothea asked, on one of her visits down from Oxford. “I’ve managed to trace a few people. He may have been held as a prisoner of war somewhere. Or perhaps he went into Signals, got sent behind enemy lines. He was good at puzzling things out. It's all chaos on the continent now, I'm told. Some people have even put ads in the personals section.”

“He isn’t a misplaced umbrella, Dorothea,” Max replied.

Dorothea raised her eyebrows at his waspishness. “Well.  I could at least make a few calls. What was his Christian name, anyway? He never did tell me, now that I think about it.”

 

And because he knew that Dorothea was fond of Morse, it wasn't that difficult. 

“Endeavour,” Max said. 

“Endeavour?" she smiled. "Really?”

”His mother was a Quaker. It’s a virtue name.”

Dorothea laughed gently then, as if at a memory. 

"What is it?" Max asked. 

"I had a sense it must be something like that. That awful day. When I was trying to string Gull along to give Inspector Thursday time to ambush him. I asked Morse his name. And Morse looked as if he had rather throw himself off the West Tower than to tell me." 

Max cracked a soft smile, even though, at the time, the situation was anything but funny. But the anecdote was so in keeping with what he remembered of his fearless Morse, that he couldn’t help himself.

His Morse, who disclosed his name for Inspector Thursday, but who refused to say it even as a part of a distraction to keep a deranged killer at bay.

 

"Well," Dorothea said. "It’s not as if you ever made it easier, not answering his letters. Let me know if you change your mind. With a name like that, it should be a snap."

Max scowled.

 

And besides, what was the point? Morse knew where to find Max if he wanted him. And if he had found a new life somewhere, if he was happy, Max did not want to disturb him. 

 

It could be that he had found a nice girl and had settled down somewhere, finally in a home of his own. Max knew that Morse had been engaged to a girl once before, so it was a possibility, and not out of keeping with what he knew of Morse. 

 

Max had teased him for his obvious lack of experience—there were times when the blissfully surprised or befuddled looks on his face were too comical to let pass without comment. 

Max couldn’t help but smile at his clumsy efforts, at his stunned enthusiasm, but—the truth of it was —he envied him. Morse had never compromised himself with the sorts of anonymous trysts and meetings in darkened rooms that Max had used in his youth to fill the void that he longed to fill with something else--with just one scrap of the thing that Rebecca so easily threw away. 

 

When Max had gone into the dining room that first morning after Morse had come to him, he had not known what to expect. He thought his face might flush, that he might toss him a furtive glance perhaps, if he had regretted it, or a knowing one, if he hadn’t.

 

But no, there he was, pouring a cup of coffee and talking about rents as if the night hadn’t happened at all.

 

At first, Max had not been sure what to make of it. But then, Max came to understand a glimmer of what was Morse.

Once Morse had decided on his course of action, once he had decided that he loved him—that was enough. It was all as simple as breathing that he would have done as he did. Once he was clear in his own conscience, his mind and heart were set firm. He was one of those rare people of such purity of intent as to be, to Max, almost completely unfathomable.

He loved first with his heart, and then his body followed, as a matter of course. So it might just as easily be possible that he had found a girl, in France or in Italy. Perhaps they had settled somewhere, out in the country. Max liked to think of him crossing his own fields, coming home. A child who had inherited Morse’s tousled hair and blue eyes would trot out to greet him, and Morse would swoop the child up, while a pretty young woman in a blue dress, with dark hair pulled back in a twist, watched from the doorway, laughing.

It was a vision that lightened Max’s heart—a sweet fantasy to indulge in when other thoughts grew too strong, thoughts of those beautiful blue eyes, clever and gentle and hopeful, lying empty, burned by a cruel desert sun, slowly filling with sand.

 

No.

It was far better not to know.

 

It was far better to lie here, in the quieting house, with his handful of memories of the only love he had ever known.

Better to remember how Morse had once curled so perfectly beside him, his face at peace, as if he hardly dared to believe he had found a place to rest. 

 

To remember how he had made love to him, just once, under a late summer sun. How they had crossed the fields, hand in hand, as Morse murmured that ridiculous quote from Paradise Lost. 

A hundred retorts were there, right on the tip of Max’s tongue; of all the couples to compare them to, that Morse would light upon Adam and Eve seemed extraordinary. As such, the history of humanity would have been a very short one indeed, Max was tempted to remark.

But Morse had looked so solemn, Max couldn’t bring himself to say a word. 

 

Or to go back, riding the current of his memories all the way back to the day when Max had crossed through the lobby of the Monte Carlo Grand Hotel and heard a flurry of notes filled with such an ineffable melancholy as to shine a beam of weak winter light through the darkness of his troubled soul.

 

 

Max lies on the bed and closes his eyes, and he can imagine it so clearly that he can _actually_ hear it, Morse’s music wafting from the Great Hall and up the stairs and straight into his yearning heart.

But then the song changes, and Max realizes that his mind is playing tricks on him. The music he hears is not after Morse’s style, after all. It must be that one of the soldiers had lingered, has decided to have one last go at the piano before departing.

 

It was a shame the fellow hadn’t played before, really. Doubtless, his rendition of Schubert would have been shouted down in favor of one of the more ribald numbers, so popular among the men, but that was a pity. The man has a real talent.

 

Max closes his eyes and listens, letting the music drift over him. It feels like a betrayal to say so, but the man plays even more beautifully than Morse.

Morse’s music was lovely, but, in many ways, it was the music of a boy, running to emotional extremes—by turns dreamy and turbulent. The man downstairs played as a soldier, as a man who had seen the world and had come away weary, but with a quiet and resigned hope, a belief in the goodness of the world that could not entirely be dissolved. 

 

Max sits up then, slowly. Because Morse, wherever he is, is a soldier now, too. Has been a soldier for six years. And who knew how those years might have changed him? What they might have done to him? 

 

He gets up and heads down the hall, and he tells his foolish heart not to hope, but he can’t help it; his heart beats with a new energy, like a bird bursting into flight.

It might . . . it _could_ be Morse. Perhaps there was something familiar about that one plaintive strain..... 

 

But once Max gets to the landing at the top of the wide stair, his heart crashes in mid-flight, his throat tightens in painful disappointment.

 

One would think that Max would be accustomed to such cruelties of fate, but this one stings all the same. Because the soldier below, the soldier seated at the piano bench down in the Great Hall—with his head bent over the keys in concentration and a dusty duffle bag by his feet—is so much like Morse, close enough to fool his eyes just for a moment, to trick his heart into believing that what he had not dared to hope for might just be true. 

 

The man looks much like Morse, but with deliberate mistakes. He's slender, like Morse, of a similar build, but his shoulders are slightly broader, his frame more filled out—he's slight, but without the lankiness, the coltishness that his Morse had had.

And the man's hair is just as unruly as Morse's, tumbling in waves about his temples, but the color is off—brighter, more fiery. The color of a desert sunset rather than a forest in autumn. 

 

A desert sunset. 

 

He looks . . . he looks just as Max might imagine that Morse might look at twenty-five, rather than nineteen. His hair the color Morse's might turn over years spent under a North African sun. 

 

The man's hands run over the keys in a crescendo, and it's familiar, the sound, so achingly familiar that Max again feels a burst of hope in his chest. 

He descends the stairs and crosses the Great Hall, until his shadow passes over the man. And still he continues to play. 

 

"You came back," Max says.

And it's odd the way the words come out, more like a question than a statement, and Max realizes he has said those words before, on that night he woke in the night, surprised to find Morse sleeping beside him. 

 

And then the man stops playing and looks up. And Max's heart goes still. 

 

His face his thinner, his jawline more austere than Max remembers, but the bright blue eyes are ones that Max would know anywhere—even in his dreams.

They are the unmistakable blue eyes of his Endeavour, although they, too, are changed—filled with an expression that is at once harder, and yet even more exceedingly gentle. 

 

Morse smiles then, softly, as if he, too, remembers that Max had asked him that question once before, years ago, almost in another life.

 

And he gives the same answer.

 

"Of course I came back, Max," he says. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! :0)


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